The heART Of God

    We are never more in tune with God than when we are creating. Art is God’s native tongue. The universe is His gallery, but the mind of man is the studio where He creates today. We create art. Create. In the beginning God created. Music, literature, poetry, painting, sculpture is not built, constructed, or assembled. They are created, their foundational components are not tangible but abstract. The key ingredient being imagination. What is conceived in the mind only becoming a living thing through voice or hand. “And God said...” Things like sunsets, galaxies, laughter, the platypus, the breeze, and flowers, and man. There was no blueprint or template, just His imagination, His emotion, passion and expression. Nature is not God but God is in nature. I am not what I write, but I am in every word, likewise the painter in every brushstroke, the chef in every ingredient, and the musician in every note. We are not God, but God is in us, and He is crying to get out. “Let me turn your life, your job, your relationships, your marriage, your money, even your failures, into art, into a thing of beauty. Help me transform your neighborhood, your community, your nation into a Garden.” We are God’s workmanship, His poetry.

      Worship is nothing more than the God inspired art we create for, and mutually enjoy with, our Creator. His Spirit our muse, beckoning us, since the dawn of time, to “be fruitful, multiply, fill the earth.” And so we worship through food, through music, through words. We create and then we give. 

     Do not view life as a to do list, but each day as a blank page upon which you can write any story, compose any song, or draw any picture you like. Today may be a single note, a fittingly chosen word, a seed planted or watered, or perhaps a few brushstrokes of background scenery, and still be viewed as a success, for each of these components is essential to the creation of a masterpiece which may take a lifetime to create. 

    But be warned. There is another spirit at work within our world. It is not a spirit of creation, but destruction. This spirit does not make, it takes. It acquires, and then inflates, and ultimately destroys. This spirit is no muse working in us, but a siren whispering to us. “Why go to the trouble to create when you can just seize? Stretch out your hand.” Where we see beauty, it sees only opportunity. Everything is a commodity to be bought and sold, emblazoned with a logo and trademarked label — the mark of the beast — then finally exploited and niche marketed. 

Where we see beauty, it sees flaws, weaknesses, and problems to be criticized, critiqued, trolled, denigrated, and deported. It sees animals that need to be caged at least or put down at best. Ignoring that music can soothe the savage beast. Forgetting, ‘twas beauty that killed the beast.

When it does build, it isn’t roofs to house the least among us, but walls to separate them from us. Prisons. Neighborhoods. Borders. Walls that separate mother from child. Walls it can top with razor wire, automatic rifles, and cameras. Walls it can plaster with logos, ads, warnings, restrictions, propaganda.

     We are never less like God than when we clench our fists, gnash our teeth, spew our hate, and cast our stones. Put down your stones. Better yet, gather them up, put chisel to rock and sculpt beauty. Create Venus, or David, or The Thinker. Stack them up and build a dwelling place, or even still, create an altar and sacrifice yourself. Not your life, but your hate, your fear, your judgment, your pride, your selfishness, your bigotry, your need for more. They aren’t really yours anyway. They didn’t come from you, you weren’t created with them, or born with them, they were whispered in your ear early on. This spirit is no longer whispering. It has become a cacophony you cannot escape. It is repeated around the clock in twenty-four hour news cycles. It fills your newsfeed and your timeline. It is even preached in your churches. You cannot escape it, but you don’t have to listen to it. Tune out the symphony of scorn, and listen to the still, small voice of His Spirit. Smash these idols into gravel and use it to pave a path to others, which is the path back to God.

Let them chant. Let them rant. Let them imprison. Let them demolish. Let us rise up and be thankful. Let us rise up and build. Let us hearken to the voice which says “Destroy this temple and I will raise it again.”

Crawdads, Crayfish, Or Crawfish?

       One of the first lessons I learned from traveling is that the same thing can be called a different thing depending upon where you live. Everyone I knew growing up drank water from a hose pipe in the summer. When we moved to Florida I found myself in need of a hose pipe for the back yard, so I moseyed over to the Home Depot in search of one. Having spent nearly as much time wandering the aisles of the home improvement super store as the children of Israel spent wandering in the wilderness, with a mixture of frustration and humility, I approached an employee for assistance. 

“Can you tell me where I can find a hose pipe?” I meekly asked.

“Hmmmm, I’m not sure, let me think...I think I know. Follow me.” He replied enthusiastically.

I followed him alright....to the plumbing department to look at PVC pipe. It was painfully obvious to me that, as the captain said to Cool Hand Luke, “What we’ve got here is failure to communicate.” After many more words and several hand gestures to illustrate, the employee corrected me.

“Oooooohhhhh, what you’re wanting is a garden hose.”

I don’t remember the first time I heard a debate on whether a carbonated cola was called a soda, a pop, or a coke, but I’ll never forget the first time I heard one of my wife’s co-workers refer to a couch as a davenport and a refrigerator as an ice box. She was from south Florida the best I can remember.

When I was trying to learn enough Spanish to get by in Central America I kept getting tripped up whenever I would ask for a drinking straw, until I learned that virtually every Spanish speaking country has a different word for it. The point being, the same thing can be called a different thing depending upon where you are, which brings me to crawfish, or is it crawdads, or is it crayfish?

My history with these crustaceous decapods is as long and meandering as the Suwannee River. To say the Suwannee River takes the long way around on its journey from Fargo, Georgia to the Gulf Of Mexico, is an understatement. The straight line distance between point A and B is roughly one hundred miles, but the river made famous by Stephen Foster, who ironically never visited the state of Florida (so much for Mark Twain’s advice to “Write what you know”), takes two hundred forty-six miles to make this journey. Some would say my writing, and especially my preaching, is patterned after this wandering water. Like any good Southerner, I guess we both know the joy is in the journey, not the destination, but I digress.

Like so many of my learning experiences, I first encountered one of these crawling creek critters on Chicken Creek, or more accurately, in Chicken Creek. While playing in the creek, exploring, and throwing rocks like little boys do, I lifted a rock from the creek bed and was fascinated by what I found. It might as well have been an alien. Whatever it was it had a strange fan like tail, ten legs and an armor plated body that was the same color as the creek bottom. There was one part of its body that stood out, both for being terrifying, and tipped with a bright orange...the claws, or pinchers as we called them. With a mixture of curiosity, excitement, and fear, I put my hand into the water to grab it for a closer examination, only to be further enraptured when I saw it dart away backwards. When I first asked for a name to put with this bizarre, and slightly terrifying creature, I was told it was called a “crawdad.” To this very day, if I am down by a creek I will lift up a rock or two to see if I can catch a glimpse of one.

Over the next few years I logged countless hours honing and perfecting my crawdad catching technique until I was a self appointed expert in the field. Catching a crawdad requires four skills: speed, a spooked crawdad can escape in reverse faster than the Duke boys; sneakiness, you have to approach them low and from behind so they can’t see you coming; patience, they are good at kicking up mud and clouding the water to get away so you have to wait for the water to clear up; and the most important ingredient of all, courage. If you’ve ever had one of those little guys latch onto you with those pinchers you know exactly what I mean.

Just when I thought Chicken Creek and the fantastic beasts that occupied it couldn’t get any more amazing, I discovered buried treasure. One day, while walking across the pasture from the creek to the house, I noticed a dozen or more little temple shaped mud mounds with holes in them on the ground. My next step was to do what I always did when I wanted answers, I asked my uncle Ryan what they were. Nothing could have prepared me for the revelation I was about to experience. Ryan taught me how to lower a stick down into the hole, feel for the “grab” and then quickly pull out the stick and sit in awe at the subterranean beast dangling from it. I only thought I knew crawdads. These holes were dug by large blue crawdads. When I say blue, I mean such a dark blue that some appeared almost purple or black. If you were lucky you might catch a crawdad in the creek that was a little bigger than a Matchbox car. By comparison these underground blue crawdads were often the size or your whole hand. This discovery sealed the deal for me and I was forever caught in their grip.

Chicken Creek was my practice field, but the creek behind Exchange Little League Baseball Park was where I performed. When we weren’t playing baseball we were walking across the twelve inch drain pipe to the other side of the creek to eat honey suckle and catch crawdads. If you were wearing your baseball uniform and had a game that night you had to be extra careful not to fall in and get wet and muddy while trying to navigate the slimy and slippery rocks in baseball cleats. Weeknights in the summer a couple dozen boys would nearly stomp that creek dry trying to catch the biggest, the most, or the weirdest looking crawdad. We kept our prized catches in water filled, wax paper Coke cups from the concession stand, until it was time to go home or take the field, at which point we tossed them back into the creek. Having visited Exchange Park recently it dawned on me that this “creek” was actually a sewage run off ditch, which they have since made inaccessible with a large chain link fence. Looking back I wonder if those weird crawdads with one giant pincher and one tiny one weren’t actually just mutations caused by the contamination of the ecosystem. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?

Growing older has a way of changing your focus, and catching crawdads in the creek was eventually replaced with trying to catch the attention of the girls swimming in the creek. Not unlike the crawdads, I would learn this too required patience and courage, and though they didn’t have pinchers, girls could hurt you twice as bad as a crawdad. 

Though I moved on from crawdads, I would soon be introduced to the crayfish. Remember how I said the same thing can be called by different names depending on where you are? Well, what was known as a crawdad on Chicken Creek, was called a crayfish in Freshman Biology class. It has been my experience that the only person who calls this critter a crayfish is a scientist. While the creek was my domain, the lab belonged to the scientists, so, when it Rome...

Our introduction to anatomy came via dissection. We started out with things like worms and insects, but then came the day my old friend the crawdad was staked out on that weird and gross black wax that looked and smelled like a pan of brownies gone horribly wrong. Having logged countless hours in the creek with these guys I was already very familiar with every part of its body, only now I was required to learn all about the inside of its body, and what to call it all. His “Christian name” was Cambarus bartonii, and he didn’t have pinchers, those are actually legs, and they are called chelipeds. His tail is actually his abdomen and that armor plating is just a chitin based carapace. We did get one thing right on Chicken Creek, those long things sticking off his head, er, I mean, cephalothorax, are actually called antennae’s. The wax was gross, the preservative fluids smelled disgusting, and I’m of the opinion that the best way to get to know what’s inside a person is to talk with them and spend time with them, not cut them open and pin down their parts, sooooo I wasn’t a fan of the crayfish.

Like any good story where the first act introduces you to the setting and the characters, the second act introduces the problem, and just when all hope seems lost, the third act gives us the happily ever after, I’ve saved the best for last.

Before I could drive a car I met, what would become one of my lifelong friends, Jode. His family moved to Tennessee from Louisiana, and he showed up one day in the middle of my Babe Ruth Baseball League practice to join my team. Little did I know at age fifteen, but this chance meeting would be the first domino to fall in my love of all things pertaining to Louisiana culture. Not only did Jode and I become fast friends, but his family became my extended family. I loved being around them and everything about them, from the music, to the accents, to the attitudes, and ultimately, the food. His momma, Ms. Diane, made a boy raised on beans and taters fall in love with shrimp, and oysters, and crabs, and, the Tennessee crawdad’s crazy Cajun cousin, the crawfish. The circle was now complete. You catch crawdads, you dissect crayfish, but you eat crawfish. As an adult I have little reason to catch crawdads, unless I’m introducing children to the fun of catching them, and I have zero desire to ever dissect another crayfish, unless you are referring to ripping apart crawfish to pinch the tail and suck the head. I mean pinch, the abdomen and suck the cephalothorax. 

In a stroke of what I’ve come to know is called serendipity (the occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way), I was first pinched by a crawdad in Chicken Creek when I was only five or six years old, and when I was fifteen, in Marvin and Ms. Diane’s cabin, just a few hundred yards upstream from that very spot, I was bitten by the mudbug. Boiled crawfish, crawfish etoufee, crawfish corn bisque, crawfish Monica, crawfish bread, crawfish pie. I’m pretty sure if they made Crawfish Cheerio’s I’d eat that for breakfast. I’ve got it so bad that my fourth favorite Elvis song (after “Love Me”, “Peace In The Valley”, and “This Time You Gave Me A Mountain I Can’t Climb”), isn’t “Love Me Tender” or “Viva Las Vegas” or “Houndog”, but “Crawfish” from the soundtrack to the movie “King Creole.” Seriously, YouTube it, you’ll be singing it the rest of the day. Crayfish, crawdads, or crawfish, call them whatever you like, just be sure to call me when they are ready to eat.

Emotional Archaeology

Recently I have been experiencing what therapists refer to as a “breakthrough.” A breakthrough is when you come to an important realization, an “AHA” moment when you recognize cause and effect, among other things. Bear in mind I am not currently, nor have I ever been, in any kind of therapy, unless you count the all night conversations my wife and I get to have once a year with our friends from high school, Jeremy and Sherry (she actually is a counselor).

These breakthroughs have been self discovered. Of course any good therapist will tell you that ALL breakthroughs are self discoveries. Each of them came unexpectedly and unintentionally. Two of them occurred while visiting in the home of a virtual stranger, one came during a conversation in the foyer of the church building, and one actually occurred during the writing of this entry. Let’s tackle them in order.

My friend Wayne and I had stopped by to see a man who had visited our church a few weeks ago, when I noticed an old blue GMC truck, early eighties model, sitting in the front yard. Anyone who knows me at all will tell you I am not a “car guy.” My only questions about a vehicle are, “Does it start? Does it have a/c and heat? Does it have cruise control? Does it have a working stereo?” Anything beyond these four requirements is just gravy. Truth is, I don’t even require a working stereo. Much to my wife’s chagrin, I once had a car without a stereo so I drove around for months using an iPod and a pair of those giant, old fashioned, airport runway crew ear protector looking, headphones. True story. This car leaked, causing the formation of two small ponds in the backseat floorboard when it rained, only one power window that worked (the other three could be pushed down by hand), and I could leave the keys in the ignition because I was the only person who knew how to start it. When I sold it for $100 I had to teach the new owner the “secret handshake” that started the car. Again, true story.

I don’t know makes and models, I can’t work on them, and I’ve never really been enamored by them the way some men are, but an early eighties GMC pickup is one of my dream cars. Not one week ago I saw a couple of trucks almost identical to this one, which were out of commission and parked under the trees out on my uncle JC and aunt Myra’s farm on Fall River Road, just past Tin Top. When I saw those decaying trucks I commented to my wife how much I loved those old trucks. There were two objects of my affection on their farm that Saturday, the trucks and a litter of lab puppies. Tragically I left with neither. But today, standing in the front yard of a stranger, I began telling these two fellas how much I loved those trucks and then something slipped out of my mouth that couldn’t have been clearer if it was a vision from God. “My daddy used to own a cream colored one like that.” 

And there it was, my breakthrough. That’s why, a guy who could care less about what kind of car he drives, will stop in his tracks when he sees such a pedestrian looking vehicle. No flash, no pizazz, no sizzle, and not even a fancy paint job. Just a humble pickup truck, but for me it was better than the presidential limo. Perhaps it’s because, for me, that truck represents my childhood and my daddy. Oddly enough we didn’t even own that truck for very long. One snowy, or more accurately for Tennessee, one icy morning my momma had to drive it to work. At the time she was the manager of the Quick Mart, about three miles from our house in Vales Mill subdivision, so she had to be there to open the store even if the rest of the town was shut down. Momma never made it to work that morning. Roughly two miles from home, and one mile from work, that old GMC pickup truck lost traction going around a curve and slid grill first into a tree. Fortunately momma was fine, but the truck was no longer with us. For a couple of decades that old tree bore the scars of its battle with a one ton pickup truck, while the truck headed for the junkyard I suppose. Soon after I forgot all about the old GMC pickup, as it was replaced with a shiny, brand new, straight from the factory, blue Monte Carlo with power windows, seats and locks. At the young age of seven I was so proud of that car I actually posed for a picture in front of it, leaning on the drivers side door with my arms crossed high across my chest, the way hip hop stars like LL Cool J and Run DMC used to do back in the day. I believe this pose came to be known as “mean muggin’” many years later, but I don’t know for sure. I know even less about hip hop culture than I do about automobiles. Regardless, the truck was gone, a new and improved vehicle took its place and I forgot all about both of them, at least until today, when it all became so obvious to me.

Breakthrough number two took place less than thirty minutes later. Wayne and I left the home of our visitor and stopped in to see another gentleman, Bill, who is a fishing partner of Wayne’s. This man wasn’t a complete stranger to me, we’d met on a couple of occasions and even had some Bible studies together, but I really didn’t know much about him. Admittedly, the one fact I did know about him was a doozy. He was the former personal assistant to Alabama Governor, and one time presidential candidate, George Wallace. Yeah, THAT George Wallace. While I do not share the opinions of the now deceased Governor, and one time integration obstructionist, it was somewhat fascinating to be one degree removed from such a historic figure and events.

Bill walked us all around his property, showing up his bamboo forrest, blue berry bushes, and countless other forms of vegetation. We picked grapefruit and cumquats, and basked in what I consider to be the greatest aroma in God’s wild world, confederate jasmine. Inside the house he showed us a personal invitation to the inauguration ball of President John F. Kennedy that was sent to his father, and his indoor garden which included a Melia-plumeria, an incredibly fragrant flower used in the making of a Hawaiian leis. While smelling the flowers a couple of pictures on the wall caught my eye. They were old movie posters, something I have an affinity for, being the owner of a few reprints myself (King Creole and New Orleans). Bill explained that these belonged to his mother and were not reprints but originals. Because I can’t resist an opportunity to tell a story, I explained that I loved all things from the forties. The movies, the music, the fashion. Sometimes I feel that I was born in the wrong era, and should have been alive in the forties. Right in the middle of my soliloquy I mentioned that my memaw was from that era and when I was a child she used to play CD’s of The Glen Miller Orchestra and other hits of the forties. Had I been in front of a mirror I’m certain I would have seen a literal light bulb come on. The nostalgia I have for the 1940’s is actually a misplaced affection for the time spent with my memaw when I was a very little boy. Hearing that music, watching those movies, returns me to her living room, playing with Lego’s, Lincoln Logs and Matchbox cars, while the melody to Moonlight Serenade filled the air, and apparently, my sub-conscience. No longer was I standing in Bill’s living room in Lake City, Florida, but in Pulaski, Tennessee, in Mrs. Payne’s kindergarten classroom when the highlight of my day was getting up off of my nap mat and walking down the hallway, out the glass doors, where memaw sat waiting like the driver of a getaway car assisting in a jail break. Inside the car was always a small cup of Sun Drop and a Little Debbie snack cake, usually a Fudge Round, occasionally a Star Crunch. To this day I prefer a Little Debbie over a fancy, elaborate, expensive, or homemade dessert, and now I know why. At the naive age of five I thought she was helping me escape the drudgery of school, when in reality she was just whisking me away to her house where we would engage in a much more loving, longer lasting, and subtle type of education that took the form of Dr. Seuss and Bernstein Bear books, building blocks, and Fischer Price toys. All of which evoke a sentiment of enthusiasm in me to this day, unlike those fat pencils and oversized tablets which still make me think BO-RING!

As if on cue, even while sitting and writing these words another breakthrough occurred. This past Sunday a sister at church mentioned that she reads my blog posts and commented that she now knew where my oldest son got his way with words (for accuracy, let the record show, he is MUCH more skilled with words than I am). Quickly I explained to her that, while this is likely true to a degree, it really goes back much further, back to his great-grandmother, whom I affectionally call memaw. As far back as I can remember she has been a writer. Her main outlet for expression is the inside of a card. Hallmark employs people to write thoughtful, funny, clever, tender, and sentimental cards, but they all pale in comparison to the things my memaw would write inside them. Sometimes it was poems she wrote, sometimes it was an amalgam of song lyrics, famous poems, jingles, quotes, and, at times, it was a brief history of the day you were born, but mostly it was just words of sentiment from her heart. Even now, sitting here reflecting upon the cards I received through the years, I am realizing that my affinity, not just for writing, but for incorporating song lyrics, pop culture phrases, commercial jingles, poems, and song titles into my writing is also derived from her influence. 

Are we the products of nature or nurture? Who knows? That’s for the scientists to figure out I suppose, but based upon my experience, I’d venture a guess that it’s a little of both. Unintentionally, but thankfully, I have been on an emotional archaeological expedition into my own heart and have discovered many treasures that were clearly buried there by my ancestors in hopes that I would one day discover them, and today I celebrate the fact that I did.

The Generation Gap

     How do you know when you become part of “the older generation” in your family? Growing up there was a clear line of demarcation between the older generation and the younger. Old folks stayed in the house watching Hee Haw, or Gunsmoke, drinking coffee and talking, while we young people were out in the yard playing kickball or catching crawdads in the creek. Sitting at the kids table meant you were in the younger generation, same for having to sit outside, or holding your plate in your lap on the living room couch. Kitchen table seating was irrevocably reserved for the older generation, and as quickly as someone from “coach” would be ushered out of first class on a plane, any transgressors from the younger generation would be “shooed” out of the kitchen with a, “Ya’ll young’uns git on outta here!”

Grandparents were clearly the older generation, as they were the oldest in the family. The hoary head was the possessor and caretaker of decades of wisdom and generations of family history, a sort of octogenarian oracle. Uncles and aunts were generally consider the older generation too, with the occasional anomaly like the uncle or aunt who was closer to your age than your parents age because they were a late arriving “oops” baby (I’m looking at you Uncle Ryan Britton). And then of course there was the “cool” aunt or uncle that preferred to hang out with the younger generation and play with G.I. Joe’s, Lego’s, Stomper’s, or Transformers (I’m looking at you Uncle Ricky Hood). Identifying who is the older generation and who is the younger is pretty obvious, but how do you now when you have crossed that bridge officially, and have been formally inducted into the fraternity of the family elders? Perhaps it is just a matter of the wheel of time rolling along until we are the next domino in the line waiting for our time to fall. Grandparents, great-uncles and aunts die, and, in a moment, for a moment, we are the older generation. While this is certainly true, I believe the initiation rituals begin long before the deaths of our ancestors occur.

Most aunts and uncles were filed under “older generation” because they were the adults responsible for cooking the food and cleaning up the dishes at our family gatherings. Responsibility like this isn’t just handed out indiscriminately, it begins with simple, subtle things like making food and bringing it to the gatherings, as opposed to just showing up and enjoying the things others have prepared. You know you have advanced when you are entrusted with recipes for dishes that are essential to every gathering, like chocolate oatmeal cookies, banana pudding, and from scratch biscuits. Closely guarded recipes which are passed along with the kind of sacredness and reverence usually afforded to scripture. 

Induction into the older generation certainly requires logging time cleaning up. Not just putting the dishes in the sink or trash in the can, but actually sacking up the garbage and taking it out. Or washing, drying, and putting away the dishes, a task usually accompanied with the sharing of a story. Something like:

“This tea pot belonged to my Grannie. She got it as a wedding present from Pa Jim when they lived in that house out Fall River.” 

Listening to, and then learning to retell these stories functions like reciting vows, or taking an oath that you will not be the one to break the chain linking present and past. Eventually you begin to introduce your own stories to the ever growing narrative, by talking about what things used to be. Like when the Subway used to be a Kentucky Fried Chicken (not a KFC), back before it was a our first video store in town. Or when Shelter Insurance was Uncle Stanley’s restaurant The Hearth, after it was Matt’s Hamburgers, where my momma used to work, and where she met my daddy.

“Do ya’ll remember when that check cashing place used to be the Dixie Maid? Man I miss their cheeseburgers and milkshakes. The highlight of my week when I was little was when momma would take me on Friday night and let me walk up to the window and order. What I’d give for one of those milkshakes right now.”

Even as a kid I was somewhat of an old soul, enjoying sitting and listening to the old folks tell their tales of days gone by as much as I enjoyed playing in the yard with the rest of the kids. Time has yet to erase the magical feeling I had the first time I shared a story in a family circle and all of my elders listened, laughed, and added their comments. It was the folktale version of a pot luck, where everyone contributes something, resulting in a feast that we all share and we all leave filled. Why do we do that? We talk about these things and we tell and retell these stories every time we get together because we are preserving our tradition and heritage orally, no different from the Bedouin’s, Israelites, Saharan tribesmen, or Native Americans. Our dishes, blankets, jewelry, and trinkets are far more than just family heirlooms, they are stories and history waiting to be shared so that they will be granted life for at least one more generation.

Initiation into the older generation is complete once you begin to look forward to doing the things that you used to dread. I always hated putting up the tree and decorating for Christmas, but now it is an excuse to immerse myself in nostalgia for a full month. As a child I always thought it weird, a little gross, and kind of scary, that we would go to the cemetery for holidays, birthdays, Decoration Day, Mother and Father’s day. The older folks always wanted to clean off the “grave rock” and put new flowers on the head stone. Grave yards are creepy in a cool way for teenagers, but just plain creepy for little kids, and yet the older people get the more they become a place of somber peace. 

Recently I enjoyed an afternoon at the Lynnville cemetery with my memaw. She wanted to clean off the tombstones of her grandparents and parents and put new flowers on them both. We took our time walking, and talking of life and death, tragedy and loss, the setting ever cautioning us not to be in a rush, but to absorb every moment we are granted. As we navigated the field of stones she pointed to this grave, and then that one, each time telling me, not just the occupants of the plot, but stories about them. People who were long gone from this earth but were remembered because of a kindness they had shown her, in some cases, way back in her childhood. Perhaps Mark Anthony was wrong when he suggested, “The evil that men do lives after them; the good if oft interred with their bones.” At least he was on this day. The following day I took my mother to the cemetery at Shores Baptist Church, the final resting place of her momma and daddy and one of her brothers, and eventually most all of our kin. My first memories of this place are cold, and gray, and grim. This was the place I first felt the sting of death as I watched them lower my Grandaddy Sam into the ground. I was only eight years old and it was late November. This was the place that my Big Mamma was lowered into the ground. It was in December. But this was a very different day. No one was wearing black. The sky was blue, the sun was bright, the grass was green, and the rose bushes were in full bloom. On this day I reflected upon death, but I relished life. The focal point of the tombstone was a picture of my grandparents together, laughing and holding hands, side by side. Standing beside me was my mother, and it was the day before Mother’s Day. I cried, but I did so with a smile on my face. I enjoyed it. Hmmmm. Looks like I just crossed the generation gap.

Backroads, Big Decisions, And Bologna, Back Where I Come From....

If you have read very much of what I write, you know that I can be pretty harsh towards modern country music. Pop-country. Bro-country. Admittedly, I don’t generally like that type of country music, and it honestly bothers me that corporate greed has hijacked one of the most authentic genres of musical expression and exploits it for gain, but at the end of the day most of what I say is just tongue in cheek, nothing more than the harmless teasing you get from your uncles or older cousins. Truthfully, music serves many purposes: it tells a story, it expresses our emotions, it educates, and sometimes it’s just for fun, something to sing, and dance, and laugh about. “Bubba Shot The Jukebox” is certainly not Pulitzer Prize worthy writing, but, man, I love to sing along with that song, no matter how exaggerated the stereotypes.

Usually I reference artists from my youth as being examples of real country music. George Jones, Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline, Bobby Bare, Tom T. Hall, Vern Gosden, Loretta Lynn, Alan Jackson. Just to prove that I’m nothing if not fair and honest, I actually think one of my heroes, Alan Jackson, put out a song that sought to commercialize the culture of our nativity. Something I do no take lightly. “Where I Come From” should not even be mentioned in the same breath as “Remember When” and yet they’re neighbors on the same greatest hits album. Who says you can’t have it all?

Although “Where I Come From” ranks low on my list of Alan Jackson favorites, I do have a soft spot for it because I can relate to it. (Likewise, I have a soft spot for “The Talkin’ Song Repair Blues” because it’s true and clever, but mostly because the video was filmed in Lynnville, Tennessee, where I come from, pardon the pun. See the link to the video below). Having traveled extensively all over the country, and in a dozen foreign countries, and presently residing in Florida, I too am regularly asked, “I don’t know about that accent son, just where do you come from?” Typically, the only thing that swells larger than my chest is my pride as I prepare to answer, “Tennessee!” The response I get is somewhere on the spectrum between, “Hmmmph. I thought so” and “I LOOOOVEEE Gatlinburg/Nashville/Memphis.” Insert eye roll here.

Where I come from has hills that outsiders mistake for mountains, minus the commercialized eyesore that is Redneck Vegas, aka Gatlinburg. Where I come from has culture that Nashville likes to play “dress up” and pretend it has, the way I used to dress up in a vinyl costume and plastic Luke Skywalker mask on Halloween. Where I come from is the antithesis of Memphis. Seriously, I’ve lived in Memphis, my son lives in Memphis, and I’ve yet to be convinced Memphis is actually Tennessee. The king of rock and roll was born in Tupelo, Mississippi, but made his mark on the world in Memphis, and Arkansas actually has a town named West Memphis, so ya’ll can fight it out over who gets custody. After a yard sale, whatever is left that didn’t sell we just put by the road and whoever wants it can come by and get it. I’d do the same with Memphis, anyone who wants it, ya’ll come get. Tongue in cheek folks, tongue in cheek.

I come from a place where we locate things based upon their location to other things. The following excerpt is from a real conversation.

"I nearly hit a deer tonight.” 

“No kidding? Where at?”

“Right there by Donnie Locke's place, where that gate to the hay field by the creek is."

  I come from a place where all the flower beds have worn indentions in them from the dogs making beds to try and keep cool in the summer. Oh and by the way, we pronounce it "flier" beds where I come from. 

I come from a place where we have lengthy, heated debates about which country store had the best ham sandwich, and which of the “Foods”, Johnson or Davis &; Eslick, had the best meat selection. Johnson’s Foods obviously.

Speaking of Johnson’s. I come from a place where you don’t need I.D. to cash a check, a deposit slip to put money in the bank, or cash to get groceries or medicine. None of that meant much to me until I lived in a place where my own bank requires my drivers license and account number, and debit card to withdraw money. I’m still perplexed as to why they need all of this for me to deposit money into my account. Withdrawals make sense, but if some random stranger gives you money and says deposit it in Brandon Britton’s account, by all means you have my blessings. Being able to charge groceries at Foodtown or prescriptions (and milkshakes) at Reeve’s Drugs comes in handy on those days you left your wallet at home, or don’t get paid until next week, or think you have cash when you don’t.

I come from a place where “piddlin’” is a legitimate way to spend a day. I fully realize that many of the folks who read this will not know what piddlin’ is, so allow me to take a moment to explain and illustrate. Piddlin’ is the balance between doing something vaguely productive, while not really doing much of anything. Perhaps it would be clearer if I used it in a sentence.

“What are you up to today?”

“Oh, not much really. Just piddlin’ around the house this morning.”

(It is also acceptable to insert yard, shed, shop, garden, barn, or farm, for “house” in this sentence. You can also substitute the word piddlin’ with gallyvantin’, though technically, gallyvantin’ is something you must leave home to do, as in “You’ve been gallyvantin’ all around town all evening”, and piddlin’ is something typically done around the house). One of the great things about piddlin’ is it’s flexibility of usage in response to questions like, “Do you have any plans Saturday?” Let me illustrate.

Wife -  “Do you have any plans Saturday? I was wanting to go to Target.”

Husband - “Mmmmm, I can’t Saturday. I was planning on piddlin’ with the lawn mower to see if I could get that belt to stop slipping. Why don’t you see if momma wants to go?”

Father - “Hey watcha doing son?”

Son - “Nothing really, just piddlin’ around the house.”

Father - “You want to go play golf with me? Your momma is going to Target this morning.”

Son - “Yeah man, where we playing?”

I come from a place where you buy a stick of bologna, a few slices of hoop cheese, and a sleeve of Saltine crackers to eat while you ride backroads and talk about important matters of life and contemplate serious decisions. That’s exactly what me and my daddy did the day I told him I wanted to marry my high school sweetheart. On our way to Fudge’s Jewelers in Athens, Alabama, we swung by Bodenham Grocery and procured the humble elements for our father and son communion. That meal might not have been holy, but it was sacred. Having been a teenage husband and father himself, he wanted to ensure that I understood the seriousness of marriage and the sacrifices it was going to require. When we pulled back into the driveway that night I had a full belly, a full mind, a full heart, and an empty wallet. From that day forward he treated my like a man, and since that day I’ve tried to act like one.

I come from a place where writing about home is pretty much a rite of passage. I know it’s not much, and I doubt it will be read by many, or make me any money, but I’ve tried my best to leave my mark about where I come from. Alabama set the standard with their song “Down Home.” Alan Jackson made “Where I Come From” famous, but, for my tastes, Mac Mcanally said it better than any of us in “Back Where I Come From.”

Some say it’s a backward place,

Narrow minds on a narrow wage.

But I make it a point to say,

That’s where I come from.

Back where I come from,

I’m an old Tennessean.

And I’m proud as anyone,

That’s where I come from.

https://youtu.be/Kn2IaQ7ECUY

What I Hate The Most About Donald Trump...And Why I Love Him

      Several years ago I was walking down the street in Usulutan, El Salvador, when a local man called out to me in perfect English. Obviously this got my attention so I approached him and struck up a conversation. He looked to be in his early twenties and I immediately began to notice some telling characteristics from his appearance. Shaved head, entire body, including the face, covered with obvious gang tattoos, sitting outside a bar drunk and high. Each of us was curious about the other. He wanted to know why a white American man was walking through his neighborhood and I wanted to know why he spoke English so well. I explained that I was a Christian missionary in El Salvador to talk to people about Jesus. We sat and talked for about three hours, during which time he began to tell me his story. He spoke perfect English because he had spent many years in the United States, living in Virginia, DC, Texas, California, all over. He was back in El Salvador because he had been arrested and deported due to entering the US without going through the proper channels. He was an MS-13 gang member, or Mara salvatrucha, as they refer to themselves. Our president refers to them as, “an animal, not even human.” 

     When he was a young boy (8-10 if I remember correctly), he was confronted after school by a group of older boys who made a demand of him. He was told that he was to take a package of drugs home with him and bring it back the next day and give it to a man who would be waiting near the school. Because police recognize gang members, the gangs utilized school children to disguise their transactions. When he refused they assured him that if he didn’t, when he got home from school the next day, his mother and sisters would all be murdered. I want to ask you a question, answer honestly, what would you have done when you were in the 5th grade? This tactic continued for several years, escalating each time, requiring him to smuggle drugs, money, guns, whatever they wanted. Eventually he was coerced into committing criminal acts (stealing, robbing, violent attacks), culminating in his being blackmailed (at the threat of his mother and sisters being raped and murdered in front of him) into committing a murder, effectively crossing a bridge from which there would be no return. Eventually, what was done to him, he had to begin doing to other young boys. This is how they operate, grow, spread, and overtake communities, countries, and regions. Eventually their numbers are great enough, the violent consequences are sever enough, and the money abundant enough, that they begin to corrupt police officers, business owners, and government officials. The drugs and the alcohol he abused wasn’t about partying as much as self medicating and sedating his shredded conscience. 

     During the hours that he told me his story he gradually sobered up and began to weep. Not shed a tear, not cry, weep. He had his head on my chest and sobbed while I held him and I wept with him. He told me he knew that he was going to hell and that God could never forgive him for what he had done. This “animal” was very much human. To this day I grieve every time I think of him, and I feel ashamed at all of the verbal stones I have cast, protected from such evil realities and impossible circumstances by the privileged life I was born into, affording me the luxury of ignorance.

  I’ve spent time in El Salvador and Honduras, two countries inundated with gangs like MS-13 (which ironically was born in the United States, and “immigrated” to their countries), both of which are considered some of the most dangerous countries on earth. During one week while I was in El Salvador there were a hundred murders in the capital city, while I posted Instagram pics of the chef made waffles and omelets I dined upon, resting under a down comforter watching a 60 inch HD television, safely behind barbed wire, guarded by men with machine guns outside my hotel. On one occasion, in Honduras, I had to essentially hide out because I was in an area that local Christians deemed too dangerous for a white American who would stick out like a sore thumb. I was taken to an apartment and told not to leave and when it came time for me to leave I did so at night while lying in the floor of the car. These are dangerous countries (as if a country where we get randomly shot up in schools, movie theaters, malls, and concerts on a weekly basis is “safe”) and there are some very dangerous people in them, but these are also beautiful countries with by far the most humble, friendly, generous and hospitable people I have ever spent time with. I was nothing more than a tourist momentarily bumping up against the harsh realities that their citizens must navigate daily. Imagine how difficult it is to live in an environment where gang violence and influence is so strong. I have a good friend and fellow preacher in El Salvador who has to deal with these terrifying realities everyday. I will never forget the helpless and hopeless, and useless feeling I had the night he contacted me asking for prayers and advice on how to deal with the gang members who were making the same threats and demands of him as the man I mentioned earlier. At the time I was sitting on my couch watching Netflix. Another preacher friend who has translated for me more times than I can remember, often tells me stories of life in his hometown of Tegucigalpa, Honduras. Days when riding the bus can be a traumatic experience as gang members board the bus and assassinate drivers, passengers, whoever, and then casually get off and walk away. Some of you don’t have to imagine because you live in a similar world where you must fear white citizens calling the police on you because you were black and barbecuing, or walking through your neighborhood at night wearing a hoodie, or using a Starbucks bathroom, or checking out of an Air BnB, or moving into your own apartment, or speaking Spanish in public. You are afraid because just living your life like everyone else around you might result in you being arrested, beaten, or even killed. These kinds of stories tend to put my having to deal with a long line and rude cashier at Starbucks complaints in perspective.

     “I thought this was supposed to be about Donald Trump?” Patience friend, we are almost there. These days it seems there’s no shortage of people who seem to live for and thrive on debates, diatribes, and denouncements. Controversy is the currency of cable news and social media, and outrage is it’s native tongue. To each their own, but I just don’t think it’s healthy for us, individually or societally, to exist in a perpetual state of outrage and controversy, so I mostly hold my peace to keep my peace. But sometimes things hit me in such a way that I can’t help but yelp. 

  Yesterday morning I woke up to yet another controversial comment from our commander in chief. Admittedly, this happens frequently, and I haven’t responded before, and I likely won’t respond very often going forward, but today I had to say something. Confession is good for the soul. What he said made me feel “dirty” and this is the closest thing to a purification ritual or confessional I have access to. President Donald Trump said, in response to a question about deporting MS-13 gang members, “You wouldn’t believe how bad these people are. These aren’t people, these are animals, and we’re taking them out of the country at a level and at a rate that’s never happened before.” Predictably, everyone went to their corners and began spinning this comment to fit their personal perspectives. Many “liberals” decried the president and implied, by taking the quote out of context, that he was saying this about all immigrants. I will be the last one to defend the president on issues of immigration, he has earned his reputation on that topic, but I also believe in keeping what people say in context and not twisting their words. He was not talking about all immigrants, just MS-13 gang members. Many “conservatives” applauded him for unapologetically saying what millions of Americans were thinking, while also lamenting the “liberal” media for twisting his words, which, in their minds, “they always do.”

The reason not speaking out would leave me feeling “dirty” is because I too have uttered those same, or very similar, if not worse, words myself, and I bet you have too. My tongue has dispensed labels as quickly as a label gun in a supermarket. Plenty of people have been called “animal” or “thug” or “trash” or “worthless” or “racist” by my mouth. Different people have been victims of my rhetorical drive-by’s for different reasons. For some it was the way they were dressed and “carried” themselves. Others were guilty of mistreating vulnerable people like children and the elderly (what else am I supposed to say about someone who molests a child or scams a widow of her Social Security?). In some cases it was the “dead beat dads” who refused to financially support their children, but would smoke dope with them, “so they’d know what it was like.” Our president said an ugly, ugly thing, but if I’m being honest, I’ve said similar things about him. Even if the things I said about him or others was true, “it still don’t make it right.”

  This disturbs me because it is such an affront to the description of man in Scripture. All humans are created in the image of God and are called to bear that image honorably, reverently and to His glory, and yet NONE of us have done a very good job at it. We have all sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. Think for a moment about the pain and suffering you have caused in your world/community/family by your selfish words and actions or inaction. Think of the tears that have been shed because of you. Think of the relationships that are damaged or broken because of you. Think of the pain that exists in the world because of you. “Oh be careful little mouth what you say.....” For one of us to say that others of us are “animals” is terrifying. When we dehumanize others we are actually dehumanizing ourselves. We are becoming less human when we strip our neighbors of the dignity that is inherent in all men. Having crossed this moral Rubicon it soon becomes easy to justify any atrocity, and history bears witness to this reality time and time again.

Jesus knew a thing or two about being labeled and how quickly a tongue lashing can become a literal scourging. People called Him a drunk, a glutton, a liar, a blasphemer, and they suggested He was a bastard, a terrorist, mentally ill, and possessed by the devil. Because He was from Nazareth He was the first century version of “trailer trash” and, like Nathanael said, “We all know nothing good comes from there.” Perhaps that is why He warned us about being so loose with our emotions and careless with our tongues in labeling people. Everyone knows it’s wrong to murder, but He warned us that the hatred and judgemental attitude which utters insults like “fool” or “idiot” or “worthless” (Matthew 5:21-26) can quickly become a chorus of voices chanting “Crucify Him!” The spark of anger in the heart quickly kindles scorching words of hatred on the tongue, which leads to the fires of torment. Jesus takes this sort of thing pretty serious. I’ll include a list of Bible verses at the end to illustrate what I mean.

  What I hate the most about Donald Trump is that he is often a larger than life exaggeration of the things I hate the most about myself. Things like arrogance, pride, boastfulness, selfishness, objectification, delusion, dismissiveness, and denigration. The biggest difference between us isn’t that he is a billionaire, or the president, but that his “ugly” is publicly broadcast to billions of people around the world, and mine remains in my own mind at best or in the small sphere of people around me at worst. And yeah, I get it, the president must be careful with his words precisely because they do carry so much weight with so many people around the world. That’s exactly what makes comments like this, and those describing how powerful men can get away with sexually assaulting women, those labeling refugees as being from s******* countries, those referring to white supremacists as part of the “good people on both sides” so very, very dangerous. But let’s not kid ourselves. I may not have the global reach in an instant that the president has, but my words carry a lot of weight too, and so do yours. Think about what your children hear coming out of your mouth in the car, at home, on social media, day after day, for years, and how that influences and shapes their thinking. Think about what the people at work, or church, or the golf course, hear you saying and how that influences their view of the world and those in it who are different. 

This is what I hate the most about Donald Trump, he is just a caricature of me, of you, of all of us. He says ugly and awful things on the news, we say them at our dinner tables or on Twitter, or share the ugly things that someone else says on Facebook. Cable news talking heads who have monetized controversy, “gotcha journalism”, Twitter trolls and Facebook haters, they appeal to the worst in us. I don’t need help bringing out my ugly. It’s always there just beneath the surface, like molten lava looking for a fissure to erupt through the surface and unleash scorching fire that consumes everything in its path and releases toxic gases that poison the air around me. Just like lava when it cools off, over time my eruptions solidify and harden and leave behind a scorched and permanent reminder of the event. In my mind I have to deal with it but when I say it or post it, now it’s out there and you have to deal with it, along with anyone who comes across it. It’s verbal litter, word pollution. Just like actual litter, it pollutes my environment. When we see actual litter everywhere we lose the restraint to not add to it. Who cares if I toss mine down and leave it behind? Everyone else has already thrown out their garbage, what’s it going to hurt if I toss out mine. The way I see it, verbal litter is no different. If the president calls people animals, so can I. If others are labeling people a racist for an ignorant cultural faux pas, I’ll join in with them. At the end of the day we are all living in a landfill. I can’t help but wonder what kind of difference it would make if we all embraced the “adopt a highway” concept with the words spoken in our presence. I may not have made the mess but I’m going to try and help clean it up rather than adding to it. This blog post is my attempt at adopting the information superhighway.

  One last thing, yeah, I get it, the MS-13 gang members he was speaking about are guilty of atrocious crimes. No one is defending or dismissing that fact, at least I’m not. No civilized society can prosper unless it deals with those who perpetrate violence against other humans. That’s not just true of gang members, but also abusive husbands, white supremacists, those who abuse the badge they wear and the oath they take to protect and serve, those who abuse the power of their elected office, those who abuse their authority, those who seek to silence victims, those who exploit their fellow man for financial gain, and those, like me and you, who use our words as weapons, whether it be words of bigotry, condescension, hatred, or insult.

Not so many years ago I was taught a valuable lesson that I wish I had learned earlier in life. Perhaps it would have restrained some of the flood of ugly things that gushed out of my mouth about people. Hurting people hurt people. Our president is obviously a man who was hurt deeply at some point, and instead of healing, it festered and spread and now that pain is vomited on everyone within earshot. I too have been hurt, but I am committed to healing. Not just healing my own wounds, but to healing the wounds I have inflicted, and if allowed, healing the wounds inflicted upon other by others. I am compelled by the One Who heals me to love Donald Trump and to love the MS-13 gang member, or any representation or variation of them I may encounter in my world. My hope is to one day love them as my brother. At the very least I can love them as my neighbor. If I must I can love them as my enemy.

(If you stuck it out this far, here are the verses I mentioned previously. Proceed with caution.)

“Let no unwholesome word proceed from your mouth, but only such a word as is good for edification according to the need of the moment, so that it will give grace to those who hear. Do not grieve the Holy Spirit of God, by whom you were sealed for the day of redemption. Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and slander be put away from you, along with all malice.” (Ephesians 4:29-31).

“If anyone thinks himself to be religious, and yet does not bridle his tongue but deceives his own heart, this man's religion is worthless” (James 1:26).

“Therefore, putting aside all malice and all deceit and hypocrisy and envy and all slander” (1 Peter 2:1).

“For there are many rebellious men, empty talkers and deceivers...who must be silenced because they are upsetting whole families, teaching things they should not teach for the sake of sordid gain.” (Titus 1:10-11).

“Remind them...to speak evil of no one, to avoid quarreling, to be gentle, and to show perfect courtesy toward all people. For we ourselves were once foolish, disobedient, led astray, slaves to various passions and pleasures, passing our days in malice and envy, hated by others and hating one another.” (Titus 3:1-3).

My Father The Traitor

     Sometimes words can hit you as hard as a fastball to the head. That was pretty much how I felt the day that my daddy hurled a high hard one right at my ear hole. His words came so fast and unexpected that I couldn’t get out of the way before they beaned me. It was like having your own pitcher and teammate intentionally throw at you during batting practice, both unexpected and unnecessary, and quite possibly unforgivable. One day, during the cold, gray, and wet months that make up a Tennessee winter, my father called me and said, “I’ve decided to umpire youth baseball this year.”

His words left me facedown in the dirt, dizzy and disillusioned. I tried to “walk it off” but those perplexing words kept ringing in my ears. Learning this shameful truth about my father was for me like a mixture of how the legendary little boy must have felt when he found out Chicago’s hero, “Shoeless” Joe Jackson, had confessed to “throwing” the World Series” in the 1919 “Black Sox” scandal, “Say it ain’t so, Joe”, and how Luke Skywalker must have felt when he learned his father, his hero, was actually Darth Vader. I imagine this was how Marvel comics fans felt when it was revealed that Captain America was really a Nazi double agent all along. Thankfully the creators of those comics had the good sense to reverse this revelation within one issue. Unfortunately for my inner child this masquerade of my father is now in its fifth year.

The good ole boys from Sand Mountain who formed the band Alabama spoke the gospel truth when they sang, “Family ties run deep in this land”, and according to the good book the Lord said, “Love your enemies...do good to them that hate you”, so here I sit in the bleachers at Exchange Park watching my father umpire baseball. As many times as he sat and watched me play baseball over the course of thirteen years, I figured I owed it to him to at least come and watch him umpire one. 

It was like being trapped in an episode of the Twilight Zone. Seeing my father dressed in all blue was kind of like seeing Rocky swap his Stars and Stripes trunks for the Hammer and Sickle red trunks of Ivan Drago. To understand the gravity of the situation you need to understand that my daddy coached youth baseball for ten years and, although he was always respectful, “Blue” was the opposition as much as the team in the other dugout. Like the Bloods and Crips in Los Angeles, the turf war that was fought on the baseball diamond was delineated by colors, and no matter the color of my uniform, blue was always the color of the enemy. The phrase “Awwww, come on Blue!” is a natural part of my native tongue. Umpires were supposed to be neutral observers but we always knew they secretly had it in for us. The strike zone was always bigger when our guys were at the plate, but as small as an airplane window for our pitchers. All of that was ok because the only thing my daddy did better than coach ball was argue calls with the ump. Standing in the powdery dust near home plate he looked as comfortable, confident, and natural as Billy Graham behind a pulpit. Chest to chest with an umpire he could argue and plead his case with a style and grace that would have made Perry Mason or Ben Matlock weep with envy. Yet tragically, umpires being what they were (Communist sleeper cells working from within to overthrow America’s pastime and replace it with soccer), he seldom won his disputes over balls and strikes. Though his plight was destined to end like that of noble Atticus Finch tackling the impossible task of defending the innocent, yet hopeless, Tom Robinson before a jury of small minded small town racists, my daddy bravely stepped up to the plate time and time again to defend me against the bad calls of umpires who believed they were never wrong. 

A strange thing occurred tonight while watching this minor league baseball game. As the sun set and the breeze picked up, I began to feel the spirit of young Scout Finch. Like me she was conflicted about what she should do. She too idolized her daddy, and knew him to be a good man, and yet all the people of her hometown villainized him and called him names. Instinctively she defended him and wanted to be right by his side during the trial of Tom Robinson, but her daddy told her no. Due to the kindness of the Reverend Sykes she was able to witness firsthand the nobility and integrity of her daddy at work. Like Scout, I’m sitting silently in the bleachers tonight and watching my daddy at work, doing what he loves and what he believes is right, even in the face of vitriol and the occasional vulgarity, and I finally get it. My father isn’t a turncoat traitor, my daddy is a martyr. He obviously became an umpire in an effort to bring fairness and integrity and equality to the game he loves so much. Week after week he is willing to take a beating, literally from foul balls, and verbally from coaches and parents, in an effort to redeem the shameful vocation that is umpiring and make it noble and worthy of the great game it governs. Umpiring is his ministry, a way to remain connected to a game he can no longer play and has no opportunity to coach. Well, that, and the fact umpires get free concessions. Before you cast the first baseball in condemnation, ask anyone in town, Exchange Park is known to have the best hot dog you will ever eat. And I’ve heard, on occasion, the funnel cakes are so good, the umpire will stop the game in the middle of an inning just to eat one.