Clean Sheets

...the LORD gave and the LORD hath taken away; blessed be the name of the LORD. -Job 1:21b

I put fresh sheets on the bed yesterday.

I cannot help but think of my wife whenever I do this and her delight in such a simple task and always (really, ALWAYS) exclaiming, "Clean sheets, Junior!"

I cannot see her face in my mind.

But there are pictures, many pictures. And memories so vivid of acts of kindness and loving care. And laughter.

Small things, you might say, but precious things that bear me up throughout the days.

And hope.

How do people do it, I often wonder, who have no hope of the resurrection? What good are the memories of good times past without the sure and certain promise of the life to come?

I cannot "only imagine."

But I know whom I have believed and am persuaded that He is able to keep that which I have committed unto Him against that day.

We shall meet again.

Signposts on the Road to Salvation: Friendship

...and there is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother.-Proverbs 18:24b

"There's no explaining the chemistry between two people," I heard a man speak concerning a nearly 60 year friendship.

I met Frank Dalton in the early '90's. We worked together, then lost track of each other until around 2000, when he came to work where I was.

And the talks began. Peace talks, as it turns out.

But not peace between Frank and I. There was already that, though he laughingly informed me that I was the same age as his dad.

This would be a peace of a different kind and, early on, he offered to share it with me.

It seems odd, doesn't it, that we can tell (for the most part) those who don't possess that peace. I long now, as he did then, to share that peace with beloved family and friends.

Knowing what peace consists of, he began to invite me to his church. And I would offer some excuse. And he would smile and continue the conversation, never forgetting, on another day, to extend the invitation once again. And so it went.

The rest of the story is for later, since all this seemed to occur in stages, first one step, then another.

Some things never change however, and now I am the same age as the granddads of the friends where I work.

And I seek to share the peace that has been given to me.

Signposts On the Road to Salvation

We were discussing dreams.

We all have them. Not all of us remember them.

Do they all mean something? Possibly not.

Could it be, do you think, that these seemingly random wanderings of the subconscious mind have (at least part of the time) real significance?

The song lyrics quoted above are from a dream I had some months after my dad died. An audio dream. No visuals at all, just this song as if I were hearing on the radio.

Rodney and I sat up all night playing music on the night our father died. "Wish you were here" seemed to have special import to us and we played it twice.

But it was the first line which haunted my dream, months later.

As though I could hear my dad's voice repeating that line as it played.

I was an infidel, you see.

That line reverberated like a warning; do you really think you can tell "heaven from hell," you who know so little (if anything) about either?

You may call me a mystic or merely superstitious. I call it a beginning.

Within a few more months, my friend Frank came to work at Union City Ford and we began to talk.

There is this verse which may or may not have meaning for this situation. I think of it often:

"...your old men shall dream dreams, your young men shall see visions." Joel 2:28b, Acts 2:17b

Are you hearing this song, Little Brother? Wish you were here and I pray the Lord that He send you a true friend.

3-16-19

On this Saturday past, I stood at the highest point in Maple Hill Cemetery, overlooking the Mississippi River as it flowed past Helena, Arkansas.

Gathered there with my oldest daughter and myself was a small group of people come to pay tribute to Patrick Ronayne Cleburne on the day before his birthday.

Though a son of Ireland, he was also a son of the South and so akin to the sons and daughters who had come to remember him.

The speaker related Cleburne's life story and his service to his adopted home. But he also spoke of those traditions and values which bind us together.

My mind wandered and I reflected on the reasons I had come home; to renew old acquaintances, to see the old places once more, but most of all, to strengthen and renew family ties strained (if that is the right word) by time and distance.

The next day we worshipped in the church where I grew up, sitting in the pew with a memorial plaque bearing my father's name.

God blessed this past weekend, as He often does, above and beyond what I had asked or expected.

I am grateful for the home where I have lived for the past thirty years and all those who are and have been part of my life there.

But I am so thankful also for the place from which I came, and the people who made and continue to make that place special in my heart.

As the song says, Old times there are not forgotten.

Look Away, Dixie Land.

Yeah, Yeah, Yeah

I had cool aunts and uncles, growing up, especially on my mom's side.

You've heard me say how Mom's sister, Aunt Ona, and her husband Uncle John got me back into playing music.

One of Mother's other sisters lived in Whitehaven, MS. Every summer, my sisters and I would visit for a week with Aunt Norma and Uncle Billy and their daughters, the two oldest of whom were about the same age as Brenda and Deb.

You have heard tell of the fabulous adventures of Jack and Susan, so you know that I was OK hanging out with the females, you know, pretending to be a monster and such like.

But guys, being guys, need to hang out with guys sometimes and this is where my Uncle Billy was so cool. He would sit and just talk sometimes or we would play chess (which he would nearly always win, but that was cool too).

I think my favorite thing was that he would let me sit up late and watch the Carson show with him, something I was not allowed to do at home.

Which brings me to my favorite Uncle Billy story, the one where we saw the Beatles before they came to America.

The summer before I turned 14, we were sitting in the Shelton's living room in Whitehaven, MS (a suburb of Memphis) watching The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson.

John's first guest that night was Jack Paar, former host of the Tonight Show. After the usual pleasantries ("how ya doin?" "watcha been up to?"), Jack shared that he had been in jolly old England where he had seen a most unusual sight.

He then showed a Super 8 (the VHS of the 60's) film of this rock group playing in a large theater or something in London. He remarked on how the girls (or young women, if you prefer) would go absolutely insane at theses concerts, screaming their heads off, weeping, fainting, and other such hysterical carryings-on. Quite amazing really.

And so it was. You could barely hear the band over the noise, though the lads, a quartet of long-haired (for back in the day) young men neatly dressed were giving it their all. "She Loves You" I think was the song and if I had been on Bandstand, I would have scored it an 85, "cuz you can dance to it."

John cracked a few jokes about the whole scene and went to a commercial.

Uncle Bill turned to me and asked, "What did you think of them?"

"They're okay I guess but I like the Four Seasons better."

Thus music criticism in the early 60's.

Fall On Your Knees

O holy night, the stars are brightly shining....

I have told you before what a great singing voice my late brother-in-law had. One of the blessings of my life is the memory of singing with him and Deb, "I Should Have Been Crucified," in church one Sunday.

Another blessing was granted me, however, in the days before I came to know Christ as Savior.

It seems the choir at LBC was staging a cantata and one of the highlights would be a solo rendition of "O Holy Night."

Paul had been chosen to sing this part and was understandably nervous about having to sing this challenging piece alone.

Let me interrupt the narrative by stating that even as an infidel, I occasionally visited the church where I was raised. On Mother's Day, for the most part.

"I go to church once a year, whether I need to or not," was my irreligious comment upon this habit.

So Paul came to me and asked if I would sing "O Holy Night" with him in the cantata.

I agreed because it is my most favorite Christmas song ever, and because my brother-in-law asked me and because, though he had a wonderful voice, I understood his anxiety (as I have said) about having to sing this hymn alone.

And so we did, and so it was a beautiful experience.

I have told you all this, not because it is just a beautiful reminisce of the Christmas season, but because it continually astounds me; the goodness and mercy that have indeed followed me all the days of my life.

Truly I love Him because He first loved me.

The List

So they said I couldn't comment on any of the seven books I would post as most influential in my life.

When have I not commented on anything?!?

First, seven is not nearly enough. Looking at the lists posted by those people I know, I will bet each of you that you grumbled under your breath as you had to trim favorites just to make some arbitrary number like seven books that were your all-time favorites.

I thinking more like twenty maybe or thirty even. That said, here goes:

So the Bible was an easy first choice. Reading it saved my soul. Saved my life. The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God endures forever.

Hemingway because he showed me early on what real writing looks like; exposition through dialog and this story; because no man is an island.

Huckleberry Finn. Mark Twain, need I say more?

Shelby Foote's Civil War Narrative. How can we know where we're going if we don't know where we've been.

Matthew Henry's Commentary. The first book I bought as a Christian. What a guide through Scripture for the beginning student.

Edgar Allan Poe. How do you set a mood in a story? Read Poe.

Field of Blood. Two of the above-mentioned books are on the list not only because I love to read them, but because they present such lessons in writing style. Props to Ms. Jenna Wright, my writing professor at UT Martin. She read my three page short story and encouraged me to further explore the lives of the three main characters. A novel, she said.

After three long years of research and Lord knows how many re-writes, there it is, for better or worse. I done the best I could, Ms. Wright.

BTW, do not propose any such foolish list for movies.

I know where you live.