There's dirt-poor and then there's the poor into which he was born. Mississippi in 1925, not to mention a prevailing culture at the time that immediately dismissed him because of his skin color. He grew up understanding these realities, but somewhere along the way he dreamed of changing his reality. Then he found the guitar...or maybe the guitar found him.
He taught himself to play it, and since he'd already been singing in his church choir, he added vocals and created a signature sound that was simultaneously sweet and powerful. He sang on street corners, then began getting invited to play a date here and there. He thought if he could get to Memphis maybe he could get on the radio, and then maybe he could cut a record. Of course, he made it to Memphis and the radio and record gigs happened. And from Memphis, he took the blues to the world.
He was part of the musical lineage that produced Muddy Waters, Sonny Boy Williamson, Howlin' Wolf, Freddie King, Albert King, and many other artists who made the Delta Blues the most powerful music the world has ever heard. And of that group, he was the one whose music traveled the farthest, not only in terms of audience, but influence. He was King of the Blues. He was BB King.
His music lit a fire under young English musicians named Clapton, Richards & Jagger. Two brothers from Florida named Allman were also ignited by the same spark, as was a kid from Texas named Stevie Ray Vaughn. Two Irish kids who'd later come to be known as the Edge and Bono heard his music and love came to town. Today young guns like Gary Clark, Jr. and John Mayer are playing BB's licks.
And then there are the rest of us, those of us who discovered him and thought we'd stumbled upon something new, only to later find that he'd taken something very old and primal and made it even more powerful. The first time I heard "The Thrill is Gone" I wondered why I was just now hearing this, even though I was only 16 at the time.
He carried himself with grace and humility. He loved music and he loved people. He always remembered the place he came from, and carried its influence with him everywhere he went. He was friends with Miles Davis, Charlie Parker, and Frank Sinatra, but he never stopped being that shy kid from Indianola.
He left us last night at the age of 89. Everywhere I've gone today he has been part of every conversation. His music and life transcended race, age, and eras. And it will continue to do so. The thrill will never be gone.
Long live The King.
Friday, May 15, 2015
Monday, May 4, 2015
A Gentle Hero
This post is about and in honor of my friend Diane Bingham, whose long-time battle with cancer ended yesterday morning.
You and I were probably both surprised that we became friends. My work means I do a great deal of talking, while you were always the quietest person in any room. Many would accurately describe me as "intense," while you brought peace and calm to those around you. My faith journey has been (and remains) one with plenty of doubts and questions, while yours seemed to exemplify unbroken certainty in and love for the God who let you struggle with cancer for well over a decade. I always felt calmer in your presence and you made me want to be a better human being. You were so gracious to simply let me be me without judgement, but always with encouragement.
When I received the news of your passing yesterday I was torn between the thoughts I wanted to have and the one I actually had. I wanted to without hesitation think, "The Lord gives, and the Lord takes. Blessed be his name either way." But what I actually thought was, "Dammit, she deserved better!" While many (including some of those reading this now) would be quick to tell me how wrong I was to have that initial thought, you would not have criticized me for it, instead knowing me well enough to know that eventually I would find my way to the thought I wanted to have in the first place. And I know that you're not surprised when I say that I'm not there yet. I also know that you believe I'll get there, even if it takes me a while.
You and I have both lived long enough to know that the word "friendship" is one that is too easily thrown around, but is far too rarely an actual lived reality. When it happens, it is often surprising. Someone comes into our life who we're not looking for, and maybe we even think they're not the right fit as a friend. But they come along anyway and surprise us with their presence, personhood, with the fact they showed up at just the right time, although we hadn't until then realized there was a space in our life waiting for them.
This describes you and what your friendship brought to me. You were the friend who always brought encouragement, peace, grace, calm, quiet. I am deeply grateful to you for bringing these things to me. I am glad that I've had the privilege to know you. I am sad and angry that you're gone, but I am sad and angry in the midst of hope. I believe it is a hope that you and I share; the hope I have that you now experience a better, fuller life than you've ever known, and the hope you have that I will find my way, even through gritted teeth, to the words, "Blessed be the his name anyway."
Thank you Diane for everything, for most of all being my friend.
You and I were probably both surprised that we became friends. My work means I do a great deal of talking, while you were always the quietest person in any room. Many would accurately describe me as "intense," while you brought peace and calm to those around you. My faith journey has been (and remains) one with plenty of doubts and questions, while yours seemed to exemplify unbroken certainty in and love for the God who let you struggle with cancer for well over a decade. I always felt calmer in your presence and you made me want to be a better human being. You were so gracious to simply let me be me without judgement, but always with encouragement.
When I received the news of your passing yesterday I was torn between the thoughts I wanted to have and the one I actually had. I wanted to without hesitation think, "The Lord gives, and the Lord takes. Blessed be his name either way." But what I actually thought was, "Dammit, she deserved better!" While many (including some of those reading this now) would be quick to tell me how wrong I was to have that initial thought, you would not have criticized me for it, instead knowing me well enough to know that eventually I would find my way to the thought I wanted to have in the first place. And I know that you're not surprised when I say that I'm not there yet. I also know that you believe I'll get there, even if it takes me a while.
You and I have both lived long enough to know that the word "friendship" is one that is too easily thrown around, but is far too rarely an actual lived reality. When it happens, it is often surprising. Someone comes into our life who we're not looking for, and maybe we even think they're not the right fit as a friend. But they come along anyway and surprise us with their presence, personhood, with the fact they showed up at just the right time, although we hadn't until then realized there was a space in our life waiting for them.
This describes you and what your friendship brought to me. You were the friend who always brought encouragement, peace, grace, calm, quiet. I am deeply grateful to you for bringing these things to me. I am glad that I've had the privilege to know you. I am sad and angry that you're gone, but I am sad and angry in the midst of hope. I believe it is a hope that you and I share; the hope I have that you now experience a better, fuller life than you've ever known, and the hope you have that I will find my way, even through gritted teeth, to the words, "Blessed be the his name anyway."
Thank you Diane for everything, for most of all being my friend.
Sunday, February 8, 2015
#Celebrate8
The conversation that created Second Life of Chattanooga happened 8 years ago this month, in fact, 8 years ago to the day that I'm writing this, Feb. 8. To paraphrase a line from a Grateful Dead song, what a quick, unexpected trip it's been. Our work has grown over the years from those first days of endeavoring to educate ourselves and others about the issue of sex trafficking (work that we continue), into helping to create regional and statewide collaborative action on the issue, advocacy, as well as coordinating the delivery of services for trafficking survivors.
Our survivor services are expanding, as we move towards opening our area's first long-term, residentially-based recovery center for victims of trafficking. All of this work requires the financial resources to make this things happen.
In this our birthday month completing our 8th year of anti-trafficking work, we're asking you to help us "Celebrate 8" by making a financial gift to Second Life that has an 8 in the amount, whether it's $8, $28, or $88. We rely on the financial partnerships of individuals like you to help us continue to be one of Tennessee's leading anti-trafficking organizations.
You can donate securely online at secondlifechattanooga.org, or you can mail your gift to:
Second Life of Chattanooga
PO Box 25485
Chattanooga, TN 37422
I'm also asking that you pass the word throughout your social media networks by using the hashtag #Celebrate8. Your voice, your involvement, your advocacy on our behalf and on behalf of those we serve helps to turn the tide on the crime of trafficking. Please join with us throughout this month for #Celebrate8 as we continue to fulfill our work of "Stopping Trafficking. Starting Lives."
Our survivor services are expanding, as we move towards opening our area's first long-term, residentially-based recovery center for victims of trafficking. All of this work requires the financial resources to make this things happen.
In this our birthday month completing our 8th year of anti-trafficking work, we're asking you to help us "Celebrate 8" by making a financial gift to Second Life that has an 8 in the amount, whether it's $8, $28, or $88. We rely on the financial partnerships of individuals like you to help us continue to be one of Tennessee's leading anti-trafficking organizations.
You can donate securely online at secondlifechattanooga.org, or you can mail your gift to:
Second Life of Chattanooga
PO Box 25485
Chattanooga, TN 37422
I'm also asking that you pass the word throughout your social media networks by using the hashtag #Celebrate8. Your voice, your involvement, your advocacy on our behalf and on behalf of those we serve helps to turn the tide on the crime of trafficking. Please join with us throughout this month for #Celebrate8 as we continue to fulfill our work of "Stopping Trafficking. Starting Lives."
Monday, December 1, 2014
Giving Tuesday
I'll get right to the point. Tomorrow (or today, depending on when you read this), Tuesday, December 2, is "Giving Tuesday." I'm writing this asking you to give, specifically to Second Life of Chattanooga.
Giving Tuesday has been developed as a bit of an answer to the hysteria and consummerism that surround Black Friday and Cyber Monday. In this the "season of giving," Giving Tuesday asks us to focus on the people and issues who could use our help. Second Life of Chattanooga works to create awareness and collaborative action on the issue of sex trafficking as it exists in Greater Chattanooga and throughout Southeast Tennessee. Beyond our city and region, we have also provided help for trafficking victims as far away as New England and the West Coast.
We are a small organization, and operational funding is our greatest current need. Giving Tuesday is an opportunity to help with this need. Over 1,700 people have liked us on Facebook. If you are one of those 1,700, please make us your Giving Tuesday focus. We are asking everyone to make a donation of at least $10 to Second Life of Chattanooga for Giving Tuesday. If each person who has liked us on Facebook does this, we experience a serious boost in not only resources, but momentum, both of which are an organization's life-blood.
You can make your tax-deductible donation securely online at secondlifechattanooga.org. In addition to your Giving Tuesday gift, we ask you to also consider becoming a regular donor to Second Life. But, for tomorrow (or today) please make that $10 gift. Giving Tuesday is not about creating small numbers of large gifts, but instead large numbers of small gifts, each of which are important parts of the solution to the terrible crime of sex trafficking.
Thank you for being part of this year's Giving Tuesday and for making us your priority for this year. Your generosity and partnership mean the world to us.
Giving Tuesday has been developed as a bit of an answer to the hysteria and consummerism that surround Black Friday and Cyber Monday. In this the "season of giving," Giving Tuesday asks us to focus on the people and issues who could use our help. Second Life of Chattanooga works to create awareness and collaborative action on the issue of sex trafficking as it exists in Greater Chattanooga and throughout Southeast Tennessee. Beyond our city and region, we have also provided help for trafficking victims as far away as New England and the West Coast.
We are a small organization, and operational funding is our greatest current need. Giving Tuesday is an opportunity to help with this need. Over 1,700 people have liked us on Facebook. If you are one of those 1,700, please make us your Giving Tuesday focus. We are asking everyone to make a donation of at least $10 to Second Life of Chattanooga for Giving Tuesday. If each person who has liked us on Facebook does this, we experience a serious boost in not only resources, but momentum, both of which are an organization's life-blood.
You can make your tax-deductible donation securely online at secondlifechattanooga.org. In addition to your Giving Tuesday gift, we ask you to also consider becoming a regular donor to Second Life. But, for tomorrow (or today) please make that $10 gift. Giving Tuesday is not about creating small numbers of large gifts, but instead large numbers of small gifts, each of which are important parts of the solution to the terrible crime of sex trafficking.
Thank you for being part of this year's Giving Tuesday and for making us your priority for this year. Your generosity and partnership mean the world to us.
Monday, July 28, 2014
The War is Over
"You're looking at a dead man." That's what I told a group of women I spoke to yesterday. I went on to tell them that mine had been a slow, creeping death that began 10 years ago. But first, some context.
I spent this past weekend at a 3-day spiritual retreat, oddly enough, a women's spiritual retreat. It's based on the Catholic Cursillo movement & model. I was there because I was asked to be one of the ministers ("spiritual directors") for the weekend. My connection to this movement began 23 years ago and over the years it has been a part of my spiritual journey, sometimes a very important part of that journey, other times not so much.
The theme of the weekend was, "Faith-Hope-Love...From Beginning to the End." I approached the weekend knowing I needed a bit of all 3. Actually, I needed a ton of all 3. I have learned over the years that I can speak to groups and usually have something worthwhile to say no matter how empty I may be personally. This weekend, however, I knew I could not just be a casual observer, standing outside of the circle. If I was going to be there, I knew I needed to be fully there and that whatever hopes I had that the retreat participants would experience something positive and helpful, I needed to have the same hopes for myself.
In addition to serving communion and being available for conversation, I was also asked to give a couple of talks on the weekend, both of which focused on grace. Since metaphor is one of the ways I seem to best be able to understand deeper things, I approached my first talk on grace with a metaphor drawn from a Keith Urban show my wife and I attended in February of this year. Many of Keith's fans bring hand-written/painted signs to his shows (I didn't bring a sign in case you're wondering) with all sorts of messages on them, ranging from telling him how far they traveled to see him to requests for Keith to marry them (those are probably Nicole Kidman's favorites).
During the show Keith grabbed a spotlight and looked around the crowd at the various signs. One young lady's sign was, "Keith, I need a hug." He brought her on stage, gave her a hug, then sat her down and sang a song to her. It was quite a moment for that young lady. It was also a moment where I realized I'd been given a metaphor I would use at some point. In this case, it ended up being for this weekend.
At the close of my first talk on grace, I told the ladies about the Keith Urban show and the young lady's sign. I then asked them to go with the metaphorical flow and imagine what would be on their sign should the Almighty shine a light on them during the weekend. I asked them to be honest about what was on their sign instead of thinking about what they should have on it. Later that evening some of the folks who were there serving the attendees used a similar metaphor, a bit of a before and after approach, with signs that described previously difficult/hurtful/damaging events, and then a much more hopeful message on the flip side describing their lives now.
This had quite an impact on everyone in the room, including me. We spent a few minutes in silence after being asked to consider what message we would like to have on our metaphorical sign as opposed to the one that was there currently. I knew I needed a new message, a new reality on the sign of my life and I asked the Almighty to help me discover just what that message and reality could be. After a minute or two, the words, "the war is over" flashed across my mind. I knew I had my answer.
Which takes me back to the first sentence of this post and 10 years of slow death. It was 10 years ago that a series of personal attacks began coming my way. No one person or group generated the attacks and they didn't come in a constant stream. Instead, there would be a wave of shots taken at my reputation, who I am as a person, etc., then things would die down, only to see another similar wave come at me (and my family) again, always unexpected, always vicious. The only consistent thread about the attacks was this: they were all initiated and delivered by Christians.
I'm a Christian, have been for a long time, so we're talking about being attacked by people who occupy the same faith space as me, who are supposed to be my "brothers and sisters." It was only a handful of people driving the attacks, but they had pretty wide-ranging impact. Over time I became crippled by the accusations, the half-truths, the outright lies. As I said to the ladies yesterday, you get the hell beaten out of you long enough, you begin to die. That is what began happening to me.
I withdrew, went deep within myself, built some huge, thick walls and told everyone but my wife, daughter, and a few close friends to stay away. Far away. And I began to hate. First, I just hated the acts perpetrated against me. Then I began to hate the perpetrators. Then I began to hate the fact that the perpetrators were Christians. Then I began to hate Christians in general.
As I told the ladies yesterday, you spend enough time hating Christians, you'll eventually end up hating God. This was true for me. Mine was not this constant, seething hatred. Instead, it was sort of an ebb and flow thing, sometimes rising to the surface, but mainly just a deep, quiet thing, something I tried to hide from everyone, including myself. Most times I thought if I ignored it it would go away. It doesn't work like that, at least it didn't for me. To let it (the hatred) just lay undisturbed meant I may not be nurturing it, but I wasn't trying to kill it either.
So instead it slowly killed me. And it started a war inside me. Although it was pretty much a silent war, it was a war nonetheless. My enemies in this war were those who hurt me and the God who let them. Actually, there was one other enemy- me. I hated myself for letting it all happen to me, for not seeing it coming, for not preventing it, for putting myself and my family in a vulnerable position. I hated myself for not being able to get over it. I hated myself for letting it matter as much as it did.
I realized a long time ago that no apologies were coming, no one responsible for the pain had any intention of making it right. But I held on to my hurt, anger and hatred anyway. And the war raged. I made sure that it did.
Until Friday night. When those words, "the war is over" flashed through my mind, I knew that more than anything what I wanted on my metaphorical sign was that message, that reality. And I suddenly realized that not only did I want that reality, I had the power to create it. Then. There. So then and there, I ended the war inside me. I set free the only prisoner of war I had captured this whole time...me.
Yesterday I shared this story with the ladies at the retreat. I even showed them a sign I'd made that had the words, "The War Is Over" written on it. I don't know for sure, but maybe they saw a dead man come back to life right in front of them.
It's nice to breathe free air again.
I spent this past weekend at a 3-day spiritual retreat, oddly enough, a women's spiritual retreat. It's based on the Catholic Cursillo movement & model. I was there because I was asked to be one of the ministers ("spiritual directors") for the weekend. My connection to this movement began 23 years ago and over the years it has been a part of my spiritual journey, sometimes a very important part of that journey, other times not so much.
The theme of the weekend was, "Faith-Hope-Love...From Beginning to the End." I approached the weekend knowing I needed a bit of all 3. Actually, I needed a ton of all 3. I have learned over the years that I can speak to groups and usually have something worthwhile to say no matter how empty I may be personally. This weekend, however, I knew I could not just be a casual observer, standing outside of the circle. If I was going to be there, I knew I needed to be fully there and that whatever hopes I had that the retreat participants would experience something positive and helpful, I needed to have the same hopes for myself.
In addition to serving communion and being available for conversation, I was also asked to give a couple of talks on the weekend, both of which focused on grace. Since metaphor is one of the ways I seem to best be able to understand deeper things, I approached my first talk on grace with a metaphor drawn from a Keith Urban show my wife and I attended in February of this year. Many of Keith's fans bring hand-written/painted signs to his shows (I didn't bring a sign in case you're wondering) with all sorts of messages on them, ranging from telling him how far they traveled to see him to requests for Keith to marry them (those are probably Nicole Kidman's favorites).
During the show Keith grabbed a spotlight and looked around the crowd at the various signs. One young lady's sign was, "Keith, I need a hug." He brought her on stage, gave her a hug, then sat her down and sang a song to her. It was quite a moment for that young lady. It was also a moment where I realized I'd been given a metaphor I would use at some point. In this case, it ended up being for this weekend.
At the close of my first talk on grace, I told the ladies about the Keith Urban show and the young lady's sign. I then asked them to go with the metaphorical flow and imagine what would be on their sign should the Almighty shine a light on them during the weekend. I asked them to be honest about what was on their sign instead of thinking about what they should have on it. Later that evening some of the folks who were there serving the attendees used a similar metaphor, a bit of a before and after approach, with signs that described previously difficult/hurtful/damaging events, and then a much more hopeful message on the flip side describing their lives now.
This had quite an impact on everyone in the room, including me. We spent a few minutes in silence after being asked to consider what message we would like to have on our metaphorical sign as opposed to the one that was there currently. I knew I needed a new message, a new reality on the sign of my life and I asked the Almighty to help me discover just what that message and reality could be. After a minute or two, the words, "the war is over" flashed across my mind. I knew I had my answer.
Which takes me back to the first sentence of this post and 10 years of slow death. It was 10 years ago that a series of personal attacks began coming my way. No one person or group generated the attacks and they didn't come in a constant stream. Instead, there would be a wave of shots taken at my reputation, who I am as a person, etc., then things would die down, only to see another similar wave come at me (and my family) again, always unexpected, always vicious. The only consistent thread about the attacks was this: they were all initiated and delivered by Christians.
I'm a Christian, have been for a long time, so we're talking about being attacked by people who occupy the same faith space as me, who are supposed to be my "brothers and sisters." It was only a handful of people driving the attacks, but they had pretty wide-ranging impact. Over time I became crippled by the accusations, the half-truths, the outright lies. As I said to the ladies yesterday, you get the hell beaten out of you long enough, you begin to die. That is what began happening to me.
I withdrew, went deep within myself, built some huge, thick walls and told everyone but my wife, daughter, and a few close friends to stay away. Far away. And I began to hate. First, I just hated the acts perpetrated against me. Then I began to hate the perpetrators. Then I began to hate the fact that the perpetrators were Christians. Then I began to hate Christians in general.
As I told the ladies yesterday, you spend enough time hating Christians, you'll eventually end up hating God. This was true for me. Mine was not this constant, seething hatred. Instead, it was sort of an ebb and flow thing, sometimes rising to the surface, but mainly just a deep, quiet thing, something I tried to hide from everyone, including myself. Most times I thought if I ignored it it would go away. It doesn't work like that, at least it didn't for me. To let it (the hatred) just lay undisturbed meant I may not be nurturing it, but I wasn't trying to kill it either.
So instead it slowly killed me. And it started a war inside me. Although it was pretty much a silent war, it was a war nonetheless. My enemies in this war were those who hurt me and the God who let them. Actually, there was one other enemy- me. I hated myself for letting it all happen to me, for not seeing it coming, for not preventing it, for putting myself and my family in a vulnerable position. I hated myself for not being able to get over it. I hated myself for letting it matter as much as it did.
I realized a long time ago that no apologies were coming, no one responsible for the pain had any intention of making it right. But I held on to my hurt, anger and hatred anyway. And the war raged. I made sure that it did.
Until Friday night. When those words, "the war is over" flashed through my mind, I knew that more than anything what I wanted on my metaphorical sign was that message, that reality. And I suddenly realized that not only did I want that reality, I had the power to create it. Then. There. So then and there, I ended the war inside me. I set free the only prisoner of war I had captured this whole time...me.
Yesterday I shared this story with the ladies at the retreat. I even showed them a sign I'd made that had the words, "The War Is Over" written on it. I don't know for sure, but maybe they saw a dead man come back to life right in front of them.
It's nice to breathe free air again.
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
Thankful for my life
Today, July 15, I am thankful for my life.
This is the final post in my series on being thankful. As I wrote at the beginning of this, I don't know exactly why the idea for a series on thankfulness came to me, but I'm glad I've followed up on it. I can always use a reminder that being intentionally thankful serves me well. Hopefully this series has been a good reminder to you as well.
Today is my birthday. I am now 54 years old. My favorite line in The Grateful Dead's classic song, "Truckin,'" states, "What a long, strange trip it's been." I'll paraphrase that by saying that the trip to 54 has been quick and at least often unexpected, if not outright strange. I'm thankful to be the age that I am. I've never been a person who complained about birthdays. Frankly, that has always struck me as ridiculous, stupid even. I'll take every birthday I can get.
But my thankfulness goes beyond the fact that I've had a lot of birthdays. Plenty of people have been allowed far more birthdays then I've known to this point. The quality of my years rather than just the quantity is what holds my focus now.
As I have written in a previous post, I'm very drawn to the future, not very interested in the past. I'm excited about what is ahead for me, the opportunities and challenges that will allow me to grow and become a more fully-formed, fully-alive human being. But I'm also appreciative for the journey up to this point. Although not all of it has been enjoyable, and some of it was hellacious at times, I've still been able to learn something from every experience.
I have been blessed to be married for 32 years now...to the same woman. Not a lot of people get to say that. We still love each other, still like being with each other, we still laugh together. I have a wonderful daughter who inspires me to be a better, more compassionate person. I get to do work that challenges me, that gives me a sense of contribution, that reminds me of the value of humanity.
I still get to speak to a variety of audiences on a variety of topics. This has not been without a price, as there have been a few along the way who have tried to block my opportunities to fulfill my calling and use my voice. They haven't succeeded. I'm still here. I still speak, teach, preach. And I will continue to.
As my dad told me years ago could be the case, the circle of those who are truly close to me and know me well at this point in life is smaller than I thought it would be. I count this as a good thing as well. I'm acquainted with many people, most of whom I am on friendly terms with. But, there is that small group of just a few who know me warts and all, and who remain. They are friends who are family. Making the journey with them has been and remains a huge blessing.
Finally, I am thankful that I come to this point in life still holding on to my faith, or it holding on to me. As I wrote the other day, my faith looks very different than it did years ago, full of far more questions and far less certainty. But a man of faith I remain. As my favorite hymn by a certain Irish bar band says, I still haven't found what I'm looking for. But I also believe that the One who years ago began a good work in me will complete that work and my search will be complete.
I am a thankful man.
This is the final post in my series on being thankful. As I wrote at the beginning of this, I don't know exactly why the idea for a series on thankfulness came to me, but I'm glad I've followed up on it. I can always use a reminder that being intentionally thankful serves me well. Hopefully this series has been a good reminder to you as well.
Today is my birthday. I am now 54 years old. My favorite line in The Grateful Dead's classic song, "Truckin,'" states, "What a long, strange trip it's been." I'll paraphrase that by saying that the trip to 54 has been quick and at least often unexpected, if not outright strange. I'm thankful to be the age that I am. I've never been a person who complained about birthdays. Frankly, that has always struck me as ridiculous, stupid even. I'll take every birthday I can get.
But my thankfulness goes beyond the fact that I've had a lot of birthdays. Plenty of people have been allowed far more birthdays then I've known to this point. The quality of my years rather than just the quantity is what holds my focus now.
As I have written in a previous post, I'm very drawn to the future, not very interested in the past. I'm excited about what is ahead for me, the opportunities and challenges that will allow me to grow and become a more fully-formed, fully-alive human being. But I'm also appreciative for the journey up to this point. Although not all of it has been enjoyable, and some of it was hellacious at times, I've still been able to learn something from every experience.
I have been blessed to be married for 32 years now...to the same woman. Not a lot of people get to say that. We still love each other, still like being with each other, we still laugh together. I have a wonderful daughter who inspires me to be a better, more compassionate person. I get to do work that challenges me, that gives me a sense of contribution, that reminds me of the value of humanity.
I still get to speak to a variety of audiences on a variety of topics. This has not been without a price, as there have been a few along the way who have tried to block my opportunities to fulfill my calling and use my voice. They haven't succeeded. I'm still here. I still speak, teach, preach. And I will continue to.
As my dad told me years ago could be the case, the circle of those who are truly close to me and know me well at this point in life is smaller than I thought it would be. I count this as a good thing as well. I'm acquainted with many people, most of whom I am on friendly terms with. But, there is that small group of just a few who know me warts and all, and who remain. They are friends who are family. Making the journey with them has been and remains a huge blessing.
Finally, I am thankful that I come to this point in life still holding on to my faith, or it holding on to me. As I wrote the other day, my faith looks very different than it did years ago, full of far more questions and far less certainty. But a man of faith I remain. As my favorite hymn by a certain Irish bar band says, I still haven't found what I'm looking for. But I also believe that the One who years ago began a good work in me will complete that work and my search will be complete.
I am a thankful man.
Thankful for California
Today, July 14, I'm thankful for having lived in California and the long-term influence it's had on me.
Frankly, I'm a bit surprised by this being one of the posts for my "thankful" series, but it occurred to me in thinking about what to write for today that my time living in California years ago has had a profound and lasting impact on me. I am a native-born American Southerner, having lived the majority of my life in the southeastern US. Although I've had the opportunity to travel around a lot of our country, my primary experiential context has been the American South, especially the "buckle of the Bible Belt" portion where I now live and have lived for a total of 30 years.
So, what in the world does California, a place I haven't lived in 40 years, have to do with having had a long-term influence on me? In thinking about this I have realized I can trace some things back to my 2 1/2 year-period in California, things that have characterized who I have been ever since, things that cause me to live with both eyes and mind a bit more wide open than might have been the case otherwise.
When we lived in California, we lived in Fresno, which is right in the middle of the state and also in the middle of the San Joaquin Valley, a major agricultural area for our entire country. Today Fresno is a city of over half-a-million people, so I would imagine when I was there its population was probably at least 300,000, maybe more. I lived close to Fresno St. University and went to their football games all the time. The climate was great, and if you wanted a change in climate, you didn't have to drive very far at all to get to the ocean, the snow, the desert.
My time in California introduced me to the beauty and vastness of the West, a region I still deeply love and miss today. But, California introduced me to something much deeper than geographical beauty and climate diversity. The diversity of humanity is the greatest thing California taught me and it is a lesson that resonates in me today, 40 years after I left there.
I hadn't really thought about this until the last couple of days. I don't know why the contribution of this time and place is just now coming so clearly into focus, but it is and I am thankful for that contribution.
The street on which we lived in Fresno (Santa Ana Ave.) was a mini-United Nations. If you were racist on that street, you were going to have a tough time. Asian, African, Portuguese, Italian, German, and Irish (courtesy of the Redman's) are just some of the ethnicities that were represented in our neighborhood. Everyone wore their ethnicity proudly, right under the shared identity of "American." No one was considered more American than anyone else. We were all Americans. We were all America.
Our parents worked hard, looked out for each other's kids, helped their neighbors. You know, basic stuff, built around shared values of community and neighborhood. Catholics, Protestants, Buddhists, and probably a few other religious labels I don't remember, all living side-by-side. I don't recall one argument or fight (God knows there were plenty, since it felt like there were about 1,000 of us kids on that short street) having to do with someone's ethnicity or religion.
I look back on that time and place, especially in light of much of the noise I hear today about "traditional values" and I realize the values lived out on a daily basis on Santa Ana Ave. were the kind of values that would make any neighborhood a good place to live. While so many people beating the traditional values drum today seem to be referring to a set of values that they believe are most closely held by one particular demographic group in one particular region of the country (read between the lines; you'll figure it out), my Fresno neighborhood from age 11-14 gave me both an experience and a vision of how life can be lived, should be lived, by all of us, with all of us.
It's been a few years since I've been back to California. I don't know when I'll get back there next, but when I do I plan on stopping in Fresno and driving back to Santa Ana Ave. (if it's even still there) and remember the lessons I learned there that help me be the man I am today and will hopefully be in the future. It will be a matter of paying my respects. Of giving thanks.
Frankly, I'm a bit surprised by this being one of the posts for my "thankful" series, but it occurred to me in thinking about what to write for today that my time living in California years ago has had a profound and lasting impact on me. I am a native-born American Southerner, having lived the majority of my life in the southeastern US. Although I've had the opportunity to travel around a lot of our country, my primary experiential context has been the American South, especially the "buckle of the Bible Belt" portion where I now live and have lived for a total of 30 years.
So, what in the world does California, a place I haven't lived in 40 years, have to do with having had a long-term influence on me? In thinking about this I have realized I can trace some things back to my 2 1/2 year-period in California, things that have characterized who I have been ever since, things that cause me to live with both eyes and mind a bit more wide open than might have been the case otherwise.
When we lived in California, we lived in Fresno, which is right in the middle of the state and also in the middle of the San Joaquin Valley, a major agricultural area for our entire country. Today Fresno is a city of over half-a-million people, so I would imagine when I was there its population was probably at least 300,000, maybe more. I lived close to Fresno St. University and went to their football games all the time. The climate was great, and if you wanted a change in climate, you didn't have to drive very far at all to get to the ocean, the snow, the desert.
My time in California introduced me to the beauty and vastness of the West, a region I still deeply love and miss today. But, California introduced me to something much deeper than geographical beauty and climate diversity. The diversity of humanity is the greatest thing California taught me and it is a lesson that resonates in me today, 40 years after I left there.
I hadn't really thought about this until the last couple of days. I don't know why the contribution of this time and place is just now coming so clearly into focus, but it is and I am thankful for that contribution.
The street on which we lived in Fresno (Santa Ana Ave.) was a mini-United Nations. If you were racist on that street, you were going to have a tough time. Asian, African, Portuguese, Italian, German, and Irish (courtesy of the Redman's) are just some of the ethnicities that were represented in our neighborhood. Everyone wore their ethnicity proudly, right under the shared identity of "American." No one was considered more American than anyone else. We were all Americans. We were all America.
Our parents worked hard, looked out for each other's kids, helped their neighbors. You know, basic stuff, built around shared values of community and neighborhood. Catholics, Protestants, Buddhists, and probably a few other religious labels I don't remember, all living side-by-side. I don't recall one argument or fight (God knows there were plenty, since it felt like there were about 1,000 of us kids on that short street) having to do with someone's ethnicity or religion.
I look back on that time and place, especially in light of much of the noise I hear today about "traditional values" and I realize the values lived out on a daily basis on Santa Ana Ave. were the kind of values that would make any neighborhood a good place to live. While so many people beating the traditional values drum today seem to be referring to a set of values that they believe are most closely held by one particular demographic group in one particular region of the country (read between the lines; you'll figure it out), my Fresno neighborhood from age 11-14 gave me both an experience and a vision of how life can be lived, should be lived, by all of us, with all of us.
It's been a few years since I've been back to California. I don't know when I'll get back there next, but when I do I plan on stopping in Fresno and driving back to Santa Ana Ave. (if it's even still there) and remember the lessons I learned there that help me be the man I am today and will hopefully be in the future. It will be a matter of paying my respects. Of giving thanks.
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