A Constant Companion

Just yesterday morning on Facebook my sister-in-law posted that my nephew Peter had an eye exam. They found out that he was half blind. Brenda shot back a reply and said we found out the same thing about Betsy when she was in school. In Betsy's case, poor eyesight was handed down through me and my dad. Who knows how far back this malady goes in my family? I shudder to think what she missed all those years that we were unaware of her ablepsy.

Glasses have been plastered to my face since I was 13. The month my braces were removed, following a 2-year tangle with the orthodontist, an optometrist took his place with my diagnosis of near-sightedness. I remember borrowing a friend's glasses and being surprised to behold vivid colors and solid lines replacing the fuzzy, undefined shapes I was used to seeing. I had a terrible headache one Saturday after going to the movies, so my dad booked a visit to the eye doctor only to confirm what he already suspected.

Brenda's eyesight has always been perfect until recently. Only a few years ago she began to need a little help from readers to enjoy her beloved Kindle. Joshua takes after his mother in that his eyes have needed no assistance whatsoever in seeing the world around him. I have never known a morning when I woke up without patting down the bedside table in search of my glasses. In fact, I have an over-sized digital clock next to me so I can see the time without them when nature calls in the middle of the night ( a whole other story for another time!). For a decade I have carried reading glasses to accompany my contact lenses. It didn't seem fair when my doctor told me I'd have to wear both. That revelation sucked.

I guess the only remedy would be surgery. It makes me cringe to think about that. I can't stand the thought of someone dragging a knife across my cornea. Trifocals do the job pretty well for me these days, as do contact lenses when I play on stage. So, to add to a challenged prostate, failing teeth, ear hair and rosy cheeks, glasses will continue be a constant companion.

Pretty When It's New

Merle Haggard has an extraordinary way with words. He has crafted many a hit that still find their way, via his greatest hits releases, into my iPod. As a master songwriter, his material should be studied by future songsmiths. Today I was listening through his new release called, I Am What I Am. In his 76th album, this 73 year old sings about love from an old and wise perspective, and says in a recent interview with American Songwriter magazine , “I’ve seen it all, and I’ve seen it go away.” His wife Teresa joins him on many of the tunes, one of which caught my heart when I first heard it:

Pretty When It's New

Love’s always lovely, when first two lovers meet.
Hand in hand, arm in arm, walkin’ down the street.
Always seen together, in everything they do.
Love is always pretty, when it’s new.

Love is always special, especially to the heart.
When it’s love on sight, and all is right, and there’s no doubt from the start.
Before it starts to crumble, there’ll be many shades of blue.
Ah, but love is always pretty when it’s new.

Love is always pretty, when it’s new.
Hey, there’s nothing bad about it, ‘til your lover says, “We’re through.”
Old love’s even sweeter, that old saying’s really true.
Love is always pretty when it’s new.

It's a sad commentary on our society when the statistic remains that half of all marriages fail. I heard that warning a lot when I was dating Brenda. People would say, "You better be sure before you take the plunge." The truth is, we all go into marriage with a bright hope for tomorrow, and plan to grow old and gray together. Somewhere along the road, some couples just find that life will be better splitting up and heading in different directions. Haggard's song says it well, "Love is always pretty, when it’s new. Hey, there’s nothing bad about it, ‘til your lover says, 'We’re through'." The only advice I can give potential partners is that marriage is a series of decisions made along the way in the interest of staying together on the same path. Feelings don't always accompany those moments of decision, but they will follow if given time. I heard it said that there's no better mate than the one you already have. That sounds rough to those in a marital crisis. But when you bring your old baggage to a new marriage, and factor in the blended family with all of it's challenges, you are better off working at sticking together.

I've been a witness to a 50 year love affair between my parents. Brenda's folks celebrated their 50th last December. Yes, love is exciting and invigorating when it's shiny and new. But, as the song implies in it's closing stanza, "Old love’s even sweeter, that old saying’s really true." As Brenda and I reach our 25th anniversary this December, I can say, "Amen," to that, Mr. Haggard. I am still madly in love.

Mom

My mom went to be with Jesus 13 years ago, April. Every once in a while, usually by way of a song, a whiff of dinner cooking, or simply a change of season, her memory comes to life. When mom was alive, I must have taken her for granted. Today, as the fall slowly continues it's transformation on the landscape, I am reminded of just how much color and beauty she brought to me. She was a quiet person, generally, until Aretha Franklin records played on the stereo. Man, she could dance! But when she settled down from her occasional funk-fest, you barely knew she was there.

Mom was small--right at 5'-2" when she stood up straight. But nothing ever got by her and she would wield a belt like no none else. I never saw her run or hurry anywhere except to defend her three boys if there was a hassle at school or if we were falsely accused of something. I remember the time I was assigned to a sixth grade teacher that my brother Rob had three years earlier. My mom must have deeply disliked this teacher because she yanked me out of Pacific Drive School altogether and put me in Mr. Neal's sixth grade class at Orangethorpe Elementary.

My mom was tough. But she had a soft spot in her heart and a deep love for my dad. She had to endure much as a little kid. Her own father left the family for another woman which caused her mom to uproot she and her younger brother from Clarksville, TN to Evansville, IN to worked in a cigar factory. Even before her father eventually returned to the family, my mom dearly loved and defended him. His drinking annoyed her, though. As an infant, her dad would take her to sit on the bandstand while he played trumpet in a jazz band. One time my mom, her brother and mother sat in a car at the curb waiting on her dad to collect money for a painting job he had done. The debtor, standing in his front doorway, refused the polite request to pay and my mom, hearing the exchange, leaned out of the car window and screamed, "You son of a ____!" She was fierce, protective, loyal and had a fiery temper!

My mom wasn't perfect. She had issues with trust. Money, or the lack of it, really tugged at her security blanket. But she taught me to stand up against what was wrong. She was an advocate for those who were shoved into the shadows--like the mentally handicapped she worked with for several years. She detested liars and often shined a light of truth on their dark deeds.

No one wants to hear the dreaded news. It came on a Saturday, just hours after I told her I loved her. She was gone--stolen from us way too early by a brain hemorrhage. Powerful things come in small packages. Mom made a powerful effect on my life. The changing season makes those memories seem so real today--almost like she never left.

Mom, Betty Jean, at age 17

I Got A Barbecue Jones

Tennessee is in my blood. Both branches on my family tree lived in this state for a couple of hundred years before moving west to find work, right around the depression. My father's relatives hail from Centerville and spread out to Franklin and Nashville. Middle Tennessee is Harvill territory. My mother's people, the Ryes and Hudspeths, hail from Clarksville, right at the border of Kentucky where my grandmother was born. Even though I was born in southern California, I was raised in a decidedly Southern fashion. Bacon grease was considered an herb in my home. Meat was consumed at every meal, and we didn't shy away from the succulent fat that outlined and marbled each piece.

I learned to grill as early as I learned to cut the grass. My dad gladly handed over the reigns to me. The smell of the coals as they burn off the lighter fluid still gives me reason to choose briquettes over gas to this day! I learned early that the best tasting meat wasn't cooked to death. I still can't understand how people can eat "shoe leather" steaks. My preference is medium-rare and my cut of choice is a rib eye, no less. Our health-conscious society frowns upon the marbled fat that ribbons it's way through a righteous rib eye. Though I have made serious changes in my diet, I will still kill for a rib eye every few months!

Barbecue is a staple of the Tennessee diet. Our ancestors--well, slaves to be more accurate--cooked outdoors, over an open flame, the discarded cuts of pork rejected by the main house, and used smoke to cure the winter's portion of meat. It is a poor man's food turned into a gold mine for many a restaurateur. Barbecue is as foundational to the Tennessean as a killer Mexican dinner is to the native southern Californian (I am a serious Mexican food fiend, too!).

When my Aunt Judy and Uncle Jim flew out from Orange County to visit us last year, they graciously took time to attend Betsy and Adam's wedding. When I was taking them back to the airport, they wanted to grab a bite to eat before their long, 6 hour, food-barren flight. I suggested a barbecue place right off the interstate. When our orders arrived, our salivary glands were teased by the sizzling, smokey delights that were placed before us. I asked Jim and Judy if they eat much barbecue. They went on to say that barbecue isn't big in SoCal. "What????," I screamed as the other patrons turned to see me pound my fist on the table (this is a fictitious outburst, of course, but the surprise was not).

Californians, according to my aunt and uncle, just don't have the hankering for smoked meat like we do here in the South. I suspect that it is for health reasons. But even so, the delight we spend millions on each year, this peasant food we call barbecue, will always have a cherished place in our Tennessee hearts and stomachs. I'll take mine with barbecue beans, cornbread and corn-on-the-cob with iced tea and lemon, thank you! Mama taught me well.

A Fffailure To Cccommunicate

Some of the most uncomfortable moments for me is when I see a person struggle with stuttering. Most people don't know the horror if they themselves haven't been stuck in a verbal loop with onlookers waiting for a complete sentence to make it out of their mouths. I was a stutterer for many years, as was my dad's brother, Uncle Jack. I guess we never fully heal from the social scourge of stuttering. We are like alcoholics: recovering on a daily basis.

Mel Tillis is known for his stuttering as much as his singing. Moses was said to have had the defect, and relied on his brother Aaron to communicate for him. Aesop (of fable fame), the emperor Claudius, and the orator Demosthenes, were all strapped with the stutter affliction. Most children who stutter usually outgrow it by their teens. Some, however, carry the speech defect into adulthood.

Stutterers, because they are verbally quick on their feet, are rather resourceful. Their survival depends on finding other ways to say the same thing to avoid the dreaded stammer. Consonants, those pesky varmints, are what we stutterers avoid at all costs--anything in the language that stops the flow such as the T, D, P and K sounds-- serious sentence killers! Vowels are our friend. If we had only vowels in the English language there would be no stuttering.

Some say singing your words is a cure. That can be true. But have you ever experienced someone singing their sentences to you in a conversation? That's just weird and probably more awkward than stuttering. The biggest help for me is to just slow down. If we record ourselves talking slow enough to get the words out, and listen back, it sounds fairly normal. Many times we think that people are less patient in conversation than they actually are. If I take a deep breath, relax, and form each syllable, usually I can speak as though no verbal challenge even existed. Isn't it ironic that all the famous folks aforementioned were(or are) renowned communicators?

The next time you experience a stutterer, just be patient and don't try to finish their sentences for them. They might be only a consonant away from uttering, "Hey, look out for that poisonous snake!"

Back to the Grill

I was reminded of my son Joshua's baby blanket recently. The last time we saw it several years ago, it was in tatters. By the time Brenda cut the worn areas away back in the day, Blankie was probably 4 square inches in size. It still did the trick for a toddler who's main intention was to feel the softness of the cotton and the synthetic silk edging against his face while he sucked his thumb. Now married and far removed from his security blanket, Josh has little or no memory of Blankie.

Some of us haven't moved on from the security we find in our comfort zones. Everyone has them. From out-dated hair styles to the fear of changing careers, we scamper to the nearest handle bar that we have created for ourselves. We hold on tight to that which we know and trust to come through with the familiar results that our comfort zones have always provided. A friend of mine often says that when his management position at a restaurant caused frustrations, he always found himself going back to the grill--back to the part of his job that he knew he was good at doing. His new job as manager took him into new areas of the hospitality business that were very challenging. "Back to the grill" has become a catch-phrase for me when I do the same thing in my own life. The "grill" can be replaced by any "security blanket" to which we cling. Fear of failure is the monster that usually forces us to retreat.

The problem with safety zones (the exceptions being wisely respecting red traffic lights and refraining from sticking one's hand into a lion's cage, as well as many more of the like...) is that we usually run backward to find them. They are mileposts in life that we trust but are, nevertheless, in the past. When we keep moving forward in life we will continually face resistance. Pushing through challenges can be painful and exhausting. But when we do come out on the other side, we are better for it.

I have made some tough life-decisions in the past year including losing weight and getting healthy; to stop biting my nails; to do a CD of new songs with my buddy Gary Sadler; delving even deeper into my desire to serve our church through the gifts God has given me. These things might seem rather simple to some. But the decisions were made knowing that resistance stood in the way of their accomplishment. I am not saying that I have conquered fear, but I am rejoicing in the new vistas that are before me these days. Brenda's happy, too.

Meek or Weak?

My idea of "tough guy" has changed over the years. I used to envy the kid at school who had everybody's respect by pushing them around and being a bully. The word sissy comes to mind for anyone who would not respond to his provocations. Now as an adult, I am learning the skill of restraint as Jesus taught when He referred to Himself as "meek and lowly" in Matthew 11:28, 29:

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart (meek & lowly), and you will find rest for your souls."

Rest for my soul sounds like a great goal to achieve in this crazy, stress-filled world. Jesus' pathway to rest seems like it would lead to strife instead. But Jesus always provoked His audience with truth--many times through the use of opposites. He usually preached what was unexpected. That was especially true in the political climate of His day where the "logical" conclusion to the difficulties strapped upon the Jewish population by the Roman government was to retaliate. Jesus challenged His listeners to rethink their response through the message of the Sermon on the Mount, found in Matthew, chapters 5 through 7.

Matthew 5:5 is where we find Jesus' statement from the Beatitudes, "Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth." The Greek word for meek is praus. Many mistakenly presume that to be meek is to be a push-over. The opposite is true. There is one definition from a study of the word that , to me, stands out the most. It is the image of a rancher and his broken colt. A colt is wild and not useful to his owner until it is brought under control. The taming of a wild stallion is a stronger picture. If being meek is like a reigned-in stallion, then the actual conclusion can be made that: he who is meek represents power under control.

The opposite of meek is weak. I am useful to God when my life is reigned-in and under His control. Jesus was the greatest example of power under control. When He could have retaliated against His aggressors, He chose to restrain Himself in favor of a higher purpose. I am continuing to discover new insights into this rebel, Jesus. His message to the world usually confounds the wise. But I will continue to learn from Him because His teaching brings rest to my weary soul.