conspicuouscandor

I met an amazing three year-old young lady yesterday.

We were at an outdoor festival for kids – a great event that some dedicated volunteers put on each year at our church.  There were fun rides, a rock climbing wall, great food – even a tv in one of the food tents broadcasting a college game that was pretty important to a number of people across Tennessee…at least until they saw the score. 

There was also a great young family – an engaged dad, a very BUSY mom, an equally busy and precocious pair of siblings – a boy of two; the amazing young lady just a couple weeks shy of four – and a very young little dude of less than a year with great big eyes, curious hands that reached for anything nearby, and a seemingly unending supply of drool, thanks to some incoming teeth.  We met our first-time visitors as they were sitting down to enjoy some food.

As Mom and Dad were fully engaged with the two younger kids, Dad reminded the oldest to “say your prayer.”  And so she did.

Sitting directly across from me, with eyes wide open underneath a terrific head of curly and untamable hair, she politely folded her hands and proceeded to offer her prayer.  Looking directly at me and others around the table, she reverently and appropriately gave thanks “for Momma and Daddy, for a nice day and lots of fun, for my food.  Thank you for EVERYTHING, Jesus!  Amen!!”

Folks, that’s just outright awesomeness in motion right there. 

In that moment, I was struck by how precious she was.  And I was impressed by the maturity of her prayer, given that I had just learned that she is two weeks shy of her fourth birthday. 

As the day went on and the weekend has progressed, I haven’t been able to shake the thought of her – and of the lesson she represents for each of us.

You see, I think kids come into the world as a blank canvas – a canvas upon which the collective teaching, modeling, and influence of their community has great influence as their “portrait” within the world is determined.  Clearly, this kid’s parents understand the art of parenting.

And yet, I wonder…when she is 12, 16, 27, 35, or 52…will she be so bold?

As an adult, will she share her faith and values as openly?  With eyes wide open, facing those within her surroundings, and speaking in a clearly audible tone so as to ensure that she conveys her innermost thoughts and prayers to them – even when they are strangers?

If I had to venture a guess, I suspect that she will be like most of us later in life – quietly offering a thankful prayer while “keeping it to herself.”  And therein lies the point – it’s not intended to be kept to one’s self, rather, it is to be shared with Him and all who are within her reach. 

And yet, over time, the world will make its attempt to encourage her to “keep it to herself” so as not to “disturb” others or meet conflicting perspectives.  The Court of Public Opinion will likely rule along the way, subtly and not so subtly trying to turn an obviously warm heart of flesh into a cold heart of stone.

Of course, there is hope.  As clear as it is that she’s already on a solid path with the guidance and instruction of good parents, she is better positioned than many.  And, so long as she continues to have the strong support of good parents, extended family, teachers, and her community, and continues to pursue her relationship with Him, she will be just fine. 

But, when she sits down in a public place as a well-prepared adult, will she be as bold as she was yesterday?

Let’s hope that, when confronted with that decision, she continues to shine her light into the world…one grace at a time.

Grace and peace to all for the week ahead.  Be bold.  And…

Keep it Lit.

T.

Summertime, summertime.  Sum-sum-summertime…

Yep, the warm weather months are finally here.  Sure, it’s not officially summertime for another 15 days.  But I tend to define “summer” according to when it feels right to put the windows down, peel the sunroof back, and turn Mr. Mellencamp UP – regardless of whether or not we’ve transcended June 21st.  Perhaps I’m still reeling from my time in Cleveland where it snowed almost daily and the sun only came out on days the Browns actually won.  Anyway…

It’s summertime in Middle Tennessee, for sure.

As I was thinking about summertime a few days ago, I was reminded of my buddy Paul.  Some may know him as our local “Ice Cream Man” – the guy with the cool truck who hands out ice cream around town. 

I met Paul about this time last year.  I pulled into a local gas station on the way home one night and he was there with his vintage Good Humor ice cream truck – uniform and all.

Those of you who know me know that I’m a sucker for anything cool with wheels and a motor.  It wasn’t long before I was checking out the truck and talking with Paul. 

We chatted briefly – talking primarily about his very cool ice cream truck and how he came to own it and resurrect it to its current condition.  I was struck by how Paul wasn’t just about a cool old ride with a big motor, as some guys are.  No, he’s more about preserving an experience that today’s kids may not otherwise know – the excitement of hearing that music and bell as the truck rolls through the neighborhood with a gaggle of kids following behind, fervently pursuing the decadence of an unanticipated mid-day ice cream cone.

The truck is fun, yet it’s more important in what the truck does – it draws people in.  While some buy an old car or truck to enjoy driving it around, Paul seems to make his best memories by parking the truck and waiting for the crowds to arrive.  With each ice cream treat, a new friend is made.

I saw Paul again last week.  He was at a local Saturday morning gathering of fellow car nuts and, not surprisingly, he drew quite a crowd.  It’s amazing just how successful the “ice cream for breakfast” campaign can be when presented against the backdrop of a classic Good Humor truck to a target population that is momentarily without maternal supervision.

It occurs to me that the cool thing about the Ice Cream Man is that he has found a way to do something he loves while also bringing a smile to those around him.  We should all be so fortunate.  In some ways, Paul is the Good Humor Steward – he’s uses the gifts of his truck and his good nature to spread smiles one scoop at a time.

So, be like the Ice Cream Man.  Do something you love, but do it to the benefit of those around you.  Make their day better and yours is sure to follow.  Enjoy the pursuit, but revel in the treat.  With friends.

And if you should happen to run across an antique Stroh’s truck somewhere along the way, think of me – and give me a call.  Maybe I’ll follow Paul’s example. 

Enjoy, Y’all.  It’s summertime. 

T.

As we celebrate our many freedoms, remember our greatest heroes, and gather with family and friends this holiday weekend, I’m reminded of a great day in Washington DC in 2012. 

We were there to watch some kids we know and love participate in a wreath-laying ceremony at Arlington – an honor they received due to their exceptional academic achievement.  And yet, it became a Day to Remember as we visited the Vietnam Wall, the Korean War Memorial, and located the tombstones of family buried at Arlington.

If you haven’t stood on a hill and looked across the massive expanse of Arlington, you should.  And if you haven’t been witness to the immensely respectful precision and discipline of the honor guard at the Tomb, trust that you are unprepared to be so moved.

The best of this country is not on a hill in Washington where loyalties are politically aligned, preserved with bias, and separated by an aisle.  No, the very best are remembered as they rest among the rolling hills just across the river in Arlington.  You see, the sound of freedom may be debate among few, yet the price of freedom is the silence of many.

If you’re interested in seeing some remembrances of that day in 2012, click on the link below and launch the slide show when the file opens. 

If you’re thinking of summer destinations, add Arlington to your list.  Take the kids for a walk among our country’s greatest.  You’ll be amazed at just how moving stillness can be.

DC 18 MAY 2012 FINAL (2)

When we fail those who selflessly stood first on our behalf, we are without conscience, without character, and without compass.  Let due process determine the truth; then demand accountability from those responsible for the past which cannot be changed.  But legislative and administrative rage should not wait, rather, redirection and leadership can and must be impacted NOW to ensure that history does not repeat itself. 

Serve the Heroes.

They walk among us, each and every day.  Some in physical pain; some emotionally spent – for some, both.

The heroes who were there don’t seek recognition – in fact, more often than not, they prefer to keep their stories to themselves.  In their minds, they aren’t heroes – just Americans who answered the call to duty.

The heroes left behind are the spouses, children, parents, siblings, and friends who received the horrible news and have lived on without their lost beloved.  At each wedding, family reunion, holiday gathering, birthday party, youth ballgame, homecoming, prom, and graduation, they are reminded of the seat not taken by their lost hero.

They carry memories of the 58,220 Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen, and Marines who were lost in Vietnam – all of them.  To them, they are well beyond names carved in a wall – they are personalities, laughter, smiles, hugs, and voices that left and never returned.

And so, this day and all days, may we remember the fallen and the missing.  May we offer a prayer of thanks for their service and for the peace and comfort of those who still mourn their loss.  May we give thanks, too, for those who stand on point yet today defending our freedoms.  And, may we remember not just this day, but all days – as their loved ones do.

Vietnam Veteran’s Day.  Remember.  Never Forget.

Peace,

T.

You don’t have to be much of a race fan to know who Richard Petty is.  You know…”The King” of NASCAR racing.  Seven-time champion.  200 career wins.  The “Petty Blue” #43 race car paint scheme.  

If you grew up in the South, perhaps you remember that Goody’s headache powder nearly became the third household staple behind bread and milk in the 1970s – purely on the basis of “King Richard’s” well-compensated endorsement.

I’m not a racing fanatic, but I’ve been to a race or two.  Growing up in Richmond and spending ten great years in Indianapolis, it was destined to happen.

And I’ve met “King Richard” – a couple of times, actually.  It doesn’t matter the circumstances of those brief encounters.  Regardless, on both occasions, I showed him due respect as a leader and chief ambassador for his sport.

Lately, though, I’ve been less enamored with Richard’s commentary.  Specifically, I think he’s choked on his own foot with all of his archaic yammering about one of NASCAR’s newer competitors, Danica Patrick.

Petty’s commentary has been just plain ugly.  He seems to suggest that Danica hasn’t earned her place in the starting lineup.  And he’s suggested that, in his advanced age (76), he could beat her on the racetrack.

What’s up, Richard?

I submit that Danica has earned her spot on the track as much as anyone else.  Clearly, she’s proven herself enough to be one of 43 fortunate to take the green flag each weekend.

Drivers, like other paid competitors, are paid to win.  They also have a responsibility to represent their teams and their sport well – while still active AND after they retire to enjoy the immense blessings their vocation has afforded them.  If they do it right, they perpetuate and advance their sport so doors are opened for others who follow them and fans continue to enjoy return on their investment of time, money, and emotion.  Simply, their responsibility to the “next-ups” does not end with their final checkered flag.

As the father of a young lady, I think Danica is pretty cool.  Her persistence and competitiveness send an important message to young ladies – pursue your dream, whatever it may be.  Never quit.  I don’t agree with all that she does, either.  But, inasmuch as I don’t necessarily endorse some of her ads and other aspects of her public persona, I recognize two things:  1)  Her persona may not be a true representation of her self; and 2)  It just isn’t ours to judge.  In any event, I think her tenacity and willingness to run with the Good Ol’ Boys is admireable.  Persistence isn’t a bad thing and, in that respect, she sets a good example.

Interestingly and alternatively, Richard’s success as a team owner hasn’t quite mirrored his time in the driver’s seat.  His organization’s last championship was in 1979 (Danica was born in 1982) and subsequent visits to Victory Lane have been so infrequent that he may need a GPS to find his way there.  After “The King” lost sponsorship for his team in 2008, he consolidated his organization into another race team, yet victories and championships remain elusive for Petty et al.  So, I wonder…maybe talent recognition isn’t his strongest skill.  Maybe he doesn’t know what it takes to compete today.  Perhaps he could ask Danica what it’s like to sit in a driver’s seat in 2014.

Petty has suggested that he could beat Danica, if given the chance.  I hope she takes that challenge – and smokes him.  After he loses, he should have to do the next Go Daddy ad in his swimsuit, except I don’t know that we’d be able to adequately treat the resulting cerebral cateract pandemic that would surely ensue.  I know my mind’s eye would be so affected.

At the end of the day, Richard and Danica can and should BOTH continue to serve NASCAR well, as it has served them so.   

Whether or not either is ever affiliated with another victory is immaterial.  They are ambassadors of their sport and generous sponsors to loyal fans.  Simply by showing up at the track – as Owner or Driver – both are economic engines that keep good, hard-working Americans employed.  They sell tickets, television contracts, souvenirs, other products, and services. 

Their combined spheres of influence are huge.  It’s simply unnecessary and irresponsible for them, as mutual pioneers, to use their stage for anything less than the collective good.

And so, I hope King Richard hears the call:  “Driver, start your engine!”  Please, Richard, get back on track.

If you’ve followed my blog, you know I’m pretty passionate about the firewood ministry.  That passion is rooted in a couple of things, really.  One, there’s an absolute need.  And, two, I’m fundamentally opposed to people in this country being cold.

In recent months, I’ve spent time cutting, splitting, and stacking wood with the help of a few close friends and loved ones.  I’ve also spread the word looking for people needing a bit of help keeping their home warm, while also soliciting some strong backs and warm hearts to help get it and keep it going.

After Human Services representatives for three surrounding counties failed to show any interest in helping to identify people in need of wood to heat their homes, I gave up on “civil servants.”  A bit frustrated and irritated, I started to look elsewhere.  And I struck GOLD when I connected with a kind soul who runs a local food pantry for the homeless.

We agreed to make our first deliveries this past Saturday, so I spent much of the day anticipating her call.  When she finally called, she said she had three potential sites for delivery, but the first two would be “a little different, if you’re up to it.”  I agreed that we were up for the challenge, whatever it may be, and agreed to meet early that evening.

My bride went along and helped me load some wood for our trip into the city.  As we rolled into the crux of the Music City, we didn’t really have any idea what to expect – nor were we particularly focused on whatever “a little different…” may mean.

In short order, we were introduced to some of the truly harsh realities of the homeless existence.  In the process, we met three wonderful human beings.

First, we went to make a delivery to Chip.  Following our guide through the city streets and eventually turning into a modest neighborhood, we wound around toward the back of the development and pulled over at a very nondescript point on the side of the road.  Taking armloads of wood – as much as we each could carry – we followed our guide along a narrow, dark path into the unlit woods, up a hill, through the mud and moderately thick brush, and eventually to Chip’s home – a campsite. 

There, in the midst of urban sprawl and sitting between a collective blend of residential, industrial, and retail excess, sits Chip.  Looking around, it’s obvious that he’s been there a while – light conversation reveals that he’s been there about two years. 

Two years.  In a tent.  On a hill.  In the middle of town.  Yet overlooked.

Chip is truly grateful, yet also a bit embarrassed or shy, perhaps.  He never emerged from the tent, yet he looked out of one of the “windows” and repeatedly thanked us and told us that the wood we brought would be so helpful on the cold nights ahead.

We moved on to the next stop, ending up on the edge of public property bordering a busy retail area with robust traffic volume, a couple of big-box stores, and a number of other stores and restaurants.  Our guide pulled over on the shoulder of a busy secondary road and signaled for us to join her.  Thinking “she must be kidding,” I pulled in behind her car.

Our drop point for this stop was right there – in plain view, along a busy secondary road.  Our job was to dump the wood just over a gate so the “campsite residents” could relocate it to an area down in a creek bed area below us – out of sight and overlooked.

We learned that there are about ten people living at that particular campsite.  And we had the opportunity to meet two of them – Shannon and Mark.

Shannon looks a bit like the stereotypical “All-American Girl Next Door.”  Petite, cute, well dressed and well-groomed, I submit that you may never imagine that she’s homeless if you met her.  Yet, she is.  And she has been for just over five months.

Originally from another faraway state, she found herself stuck in Nashville after her car and all of her personal belongings were stolen off of a Nashville street.  Without family and without friends, she quickly found herself living here – under a bridge in a small, park-like area of town.  Overlooked.

About three months ago, Shannon got a job with a local company.  She takes the bus to work every day and noted that, while it’s a two-hour ride with multiple connections, “at least it’s warm on the bus.” 

Shannon relies on a network of churches for dinner each night and showers at the local women’s shelter.  She chose her campsite because it’s near a 24-hour business where she can go use the restroom and drink from the water fountain at any time.

Her goal is to save enough to get off of the street and equip a modest apartment.  Said differently, her goal is to have a place to live and eat indoors – and the means to support it.

Then there was Mark.

Mark is in his mid-50’s and seems to be the “leader” of the campsite of ten.  When I suggested that he was the “Mayor” of the camp, he reassured me that he’s the “Governor” – not the Mayor.  And, while both interesting and funny, I won’t quote him precisely, as this is intended to be a blog site suitable for family discussion.  

When we first arrived, Mark was elated to see our guide and equally kind and eager to welcome us as his new friends.  When he learned why we were there, he cried.

Through his crocodile tears, Mark shared his immense gratitude for our caring.  He appreciated the wood, but said it meant even more to him that we care about him.

Mark said he has been praying to God for a sign that He has not forgotten him.  He cried that he is “tired of being alone.”  He’s overlooked.

As we chucked wood over the fence, our guide encouraged us to move along quickly.  Aside from being parked in a relatively high traffic area, partially obstructing a lane of traffic, and leaving wood on potentially public land, I wasn’t sure what she was so concerned about.

In the back of my mind, I briefly contemplated the “what-ifs” of any scenario involving the arrival of inquisitive authorities.  Ultimately, though, I decided that I was willing to stand before a human judge to explain work being done for The Judge.  I’ll side with God’s Law over Man’s Law any day.

We finished our work and spent a bit of time talking with Shannon and Mark, though I wish we could have spent more time with them.  When we parted ways, there was no doubt that our efforts were meaningful and would be of benefit to them on many cold nights ahead.

Sunday afternoon, we made our final delivery of the weekend.  Driving up into the country about 45 miles outside of town, we hauled a trailer full of split hardwood down a “driveway” of sorts, across the bottom of a ravine, and up a hill to a modest trailer home tucked back in the woods.

We met Sue and her family – a high school aged son with significant challenges, a daughter in her early 20’s, and the daughter’s beautiful baby girl just barely a year old.

Sue’s story is that her husband of nearly three decades abandoned the family and left them with little or no resources.  Ultimately, they found their way to this trailer in the woods and have been struggling to get by ever since.

Sue has found work, but she has a commute of almost an hour each way.  Gasoline costs eat a significant portion of her income.

Likewise, the trailer is only marginally insulated, so the furnace works overtime when it’s cold.  Absent a fire in the fireplace, she said the furnace struggles to keep up – on a recent night when it dipped to single-digit temperatures outside, the furnace barely maintained an indoor temperature of a chilly 61 degrees.

Sue noted that last month’s electric bill was almost $500 – hard to swallow when her net pay every two weeks only inches toward $1,000.

We stacked enough wood at Sue’s place to heat that trailer for the rest of the winter.  And she was so, so grateful.

As I looked around Sue’s place, I saw good people struggling to get by.  There they are – on a hill on the edge of the woods within sight of a state highway – cold, modestly fed, and most certainly overlooked.

Back in “the bubble” of my own well-healed, fortunate, and immensely blessed suburban cocoon, it was all a bit difficult to reconcile.

Inasmuch as our societal goal seems to be to “live within our means,” I wonder if that idea isn’t at least a half-bubble off plumb.  Perhaps so.  I wonder…how vast is the divide between that societal compromise and simply “living within our needs”?

As for me, I won’t soon forget Chip, Shannon ,Mark, or Sue – or their family and friends.  God loves them.  And so shall we.  I hope to be able to be of service to them again.

Peace, Friends.  My hope is that you will look for the overlooked.  Take a moment and extend them a hand, even if only for a moment.  You’ll benefit well beyond any investment you choose to make – of that, I am certain.

Keep it Lit, Y’all –

TJ

As I stepped off of the plane Thursday evening, I saw people gathered around airport televisions as the news anchor commented, “He believed in reconciliation.”  It would only seem plausible that such attention intertwined with such commentary would be attributable to the passing of Nelson Mandela.

As I’ve observed the press coverage of these past few days, it has struck me that there are clear lessons to be learned and remembered from Mandela’s existence that have little to do with things politico.  Rather, they are lessons of humanity.  And so, I submit that these are just a handful of those lessons to be gained from the man they called “Madiba”:

“He believed in reconciliation.”  He did not request it, demand it, or advocate for it.  He believed in it and so he lived it.  After 27 years of imprisonment, he did not dwell on the past nor hold himself out as a victim, rather, he looked ahead and sought to understand and advance the circumstances of a people based on the lessons of his own journey.  He learned the language of his enemy in an effort to seek to understand and be able to communicate with them, fully recognizing that at some point they would have to interact in order to resolve for the good of the future.  Our lesson is that the front windshield is typically quite larger than the rear – and for good reason.  To reach and achieve reconciliation, one must first resolve to look ahead.

He was of the people, not partisan.  In seeking to understand and achieve reconciliation, he was not contained by a seemingly impenetrable aisle of bureaucratic group-think.  We should be so fortunate to be able to extend a hand without bias.

He had an unwavering sense of self and stuck to his values and ideals.  In one interview this weekend, one of our former leaders spoke of asking Mandela how he survived 27 years of imprisonment.  In his response, Mandela noted that his captors could take his possessions, remove him from his family, and ultimately reduce him to his singular existence – yet they could not take his mind or his heart.  Even during his most oppressed days, he was free to think and free to love – and he chose to enjoy that freedom and remain committed to what he knew to be true with faith that all would eventually be resolved. 

Mandela knew the value of the greater good.  Once quoted as saying “to be free is not merely to cast off one’s chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others.”  In other words, he understood that the gifts with which we are entrusted as given to us so that we may serve to the benefit not only of ourselves, but others around us – our community, however broadly that may be defined.

And finally, it is his legacy as “Madiba” to an entire nation that should cause us to sit up and take note.  “Madiba” has been loosely translated as meaning “father.”   Again, he is not remembered for his partisan views or for crafting a particular policy or bureaucratic initiative – he is remembered for his steadfast, paternal guidance of a people through very tumultuous times and shepherding them into a period of healing and advancement.  He is as much their “Madiba” for what he did as he is for how he did it – with love.

Mandela once said, “When a man has done what he considers to be his duty to his people and his country, he can rest in peace.”

Indeed, Mandela did his duty to his people, his country, and his world.  To have done so much and to be remembered as “Madiba” or “Father” seems to be the greatest accomplishment of all.  “Father” versus more sterile titles of occupational or educational nature is indicative of a life lived well and lived full.  May he rest in peace, as he his duty to his people and country are done.

And may we all be so fortunate as to retain untainted ownership of our own hearts and minds, to remain so entrenched in our commitments to what is good and right, to forgive those who have trespassed against us, to look ahead and not dwell on what is in the rearview mirror, and to deploy our abundance of gifts and talents for the betterment of others.  In doing so, our own legacy will be determined.

What do you choose yours to be?

With thoughts and prayers for the people of South Africa.  And with special thoughts for Smitty, Brian, and the Septembers…

Keep it Lit, Y’all.  Peace.

T.