An Easter Story

My collar was too tight and the shirt in general was too scratchy. Mom pinched my side, hard, presumably for kicking the pew in front of me, though I wasn't really trying to make noise or disturb anyone; I was just trying to force my feet as far forward in my shoes as possible because they were rubbing a blister above my heels. They weren't too tight, just not broken in. Once I stopped kicking, my butt got numb. The pews had no cushion.

The church in general had no cushion either. There was not much wiggle room for a young sinner like me. Sunday School was okay. There were memory verses and fill in the blank questions in a work book, which primarily served to make sure you read the scriptures, specifically the King James version of those scriptures, and I was pretty good at that kind of thing. My Dad's contribution to my religious education was to make sure I had my Sunday School lesson completed before he would let me read the Sunday comics ... "Have you finished your Bible study? Wanna read the red funnies?" So Sunday School was okay, easy enough and the teachers always appreciated those who participated, but it was not enlightening or uplifting. The one clear lesson was how difficult, if not impossible, it was to live a good, Christian life. Early on, my young sinner self decided it was simply too much.

My tendency, even as a kid, was to collect data, allow it to percolate for a while, sometimes a long while, and then try to make the most logical, consistent decision possible. The problem was only partially with the data I collected from the church. It wasn't that the prescribed lifestyle was impossible, it was that it seemed inconsistent, and that I couldn't live with. Jesus came to save the world, but what about those who never heard of him? Women couldn't be leaders in the church, but all around me I saw women leading, even in those King James version Bible stories. We were supposed to let our light shine, but our church seemed so insular, so inwardly focused. We were supposed to praise God with singing, but for some reason, pianos poisoned the praise. We talked about Jesus' miracles, the supremacy of God, the power of the Holy Spirit, but there was no room for mystery. How could there be no gray areas when no one could claim to fully know God?

But many made that claim. They told me Dad was going to hell for not attending church. They told me the folks in the church down the street were going to hell because they weren't doing church the right way. They told me about judgement, but I don't recall hearing about grace. I got very good at memory verses and bible races and using particular scriptures as 'proof' of righteousness. In the end, however, it didn't make sense, at least to a young sinner like me, and so it became easier and easier to ignore and dismiss what was being taught. To me it seemed suspiciously like the church was creating their own check boxes, so it was not a surprise to me when they checked them off. I did not believe in what they were selling.

And then there was the other data being collected. My Mom took us to church. Dad stayed home. Church was stressful. Sunday afternoons with Dad were remarkably boring, often spent at Grandma Turner's house. Rides home from church were often filled with gossip or arguments or discussion of some sinner's inappropriate behavior. Rides home from Grandma Turner's were usually pretty quiet, except when interrupted by Dad's a capella renditions of Bob Wills or some obscure and hopelessly hokey cowboy song. I rarely saw Mom put money in the collection plate. I often saw Dad checking on some old guy he knew was down on his luck. It's not that Dad was nice and good and Mom was mean and bad, it was simply that Dad seemed happier. The same could be said of many of my other friends who did not go to church, or who went to a church that did fun things. The words I heard in church versus the life I witnessed away from it just didn't hang together.

Some of the words I heard in church included this, from Mark 16:16 ...

The one who believes and is baptized will be saved

This was a regularly featured scripture in worship. Near the end of every service there was what was commonly referred to as an 'altar call.' Inviting worshippers to come forward and be baptized. The expectation was that if you were so moved by the message, the Holy Spirit would call you to come forward and be baptized. The baptistry was behind a curtain, behind the pulpit. Once you came forward, the preacher would take you back to the baptistry. You would change into a white robe. The preacher would step into the water with you, say the appropriate words and dip or dunk you completely under the water. As you came out of the water, the curtain would be closed, I assume to save you the embarrassment of looking like you'd just been dunked. I never understood why they closed the curtain. If the action was holy, I wanted to see it all.

There was, of course, no infant baptism. You had to come forward, fully aware of your commitment. I saw many of my peers go forward to be baptized, some as early as 10 or 11 years old. By the time I was 13 I was feeling the pressure. It seemed that every time I heard "The one who believes AND is baptized" every head in the congregation would turn to look at me. There was no question that the "AND" was emphasized. But I did not believe. I simply did not. And, in my search for consistency, there was no way I was going forward. I could not do something I did not believe simply to conform to community convention. I even talked about this with my non-religious Dad who said, "Don't worry about it. I was baptized every time a traveling preacher came to town. I've been dunked enough for both of us." Consequently, I was never baptized, and as soon as I left home, I also left the church.

This was my thinking at the time. I do not condemn those who taught me, either my parents or the church leaders. I believe they were doing what they thought was best and all I'm trying to communicate is that it was not sufficient for me. I've already admitted my sinfulness. Though I was young, I have a hard time holding others responsible for my hard-headed-ness. None of us made it easy, so please do not interpret the above as criticism. It was what it was; it was my life and I truly have no regrets.

Today, however, at the age of 56, I was baptized at Bentwood Trail Presbyterian Church in Dallas, Texas by the Reverend Dr. Elizabeth Callender during Easter worship services. We have been worshipping at Bentwood Trail since 1999, and joined in 2000 when our son was 3 years old. I quit going to church as soon as I left home. I did not return until my wife convinced me that it was the right thing to do for our son, and somehow I recognized the truth of that, and agreed to "try" church again. Throughout my tenure at BTPC I have struggled with the knowledge that I was not baptized. Sometimes, it made me feel like a fraud. Other times it was reassuring, knowing that even if I was not baptized, God still loved me.

I'm sure there were many in my church family who were shocked to see my name in the bulletin to be baptized today. I've been active in teaching, leading worship, volunteering and church leadership for many years. To those who want to know "why now?" after all these years, I have three answers.

First, if anyone was going to baptize me, it was going to be Elizabeth. Despite the fact that she is a woman, and that I would be sprinkled instead of dunked, it felt right. I was part of Elizabeth's call to BTPC, and my work on the nominating committee truly was one of those times when I felt God's call. She has been my friend and my teacher, and there is a 'rightness' in our relationship that is undeniable. Since we will be moving to Houston soon, I couldn't let the decision to be baptized linger.

Second, as I mentioned before, sometimes it takes a while for me to process data and come to a decision. This one was a long time coming, but I finally determined that it was time to take this step. The epiphany came several months ago when I finally realized, after struggling with the whole concept and need and purpose of baptism for decades, that it was something that you get to do, an opportunity, not something you have to do, a requirement.

Finally, I eventually realized that NOT being baptized was my way of controlling my relationship with God. Not getting baptized was my way of letting God know that I was in charge of this relationship. I was holding out, hoping that some day, some way, God would prove himself to me ... burning bush, winning lottery ticket, life changing vision, something. Who am I to demand that the Creator of the Universe prove himself to me? Isn't the logical thing to seek a relationship with God, to simply accept His love that is unconditionally given?

I have grown from a young sinner, full of doubt and stubbornness, to an old sinner, unsure of many, many things, but absolutely convinced that it is better to live into and in the love that is offered, than to try to control it, or to try to force it into conditions and requirements of my own construction. It is not my tendency to leap into faith. Choosing to be baptized, for me, has not been a leap, but rather a decades long process that began with my Mother dipping my toes in the water (though at times it felt like being thrown in the deep end) and ending with being welcomed into the ocean of family and friends and believers spanning not just decades, but millennia.

Who am I? A child of the great I AM, baptized, a participant in Jesus' death and resurrection, dead to what separates us from God, and raised to newness of life in Christ. I will endeavor to choose life in all things, and will succeed with God's help.

Thank you, everyone, who brought me to this point. It has been a long journey, and you have all been part of it, and a blessing to me.

A Speech I'd Like to Hear from Ted Cruz

A well known woman once said of her upbringing, "We learned about honesty and integrity - that the truth matters ... that you don't take shortcuts or play by your own set of rules ... and success doesn't count unless you earn it fair and square." I believe that whole-heartedly, and I would expect most of you believe it, too, so I'd like to talk about these important things - truth, rules and earned success.

First, some truth ... some people don't like me. The media tags me as 'extreme,' attempting to link me in the public mind to 'Muslim extremists,' to paint me as unreasonable. Political blogs say I'm unpopular with my congressional colleagues, which is supposed to be insulting - perhaps they believe that Congress is like middle school where popularity is some sort of goal or marker for success. Some, even in the Republican party, have called my efforts to make significant change self-serving. These things, these sticks and stones, are not the truth.

Here's the truth. My views on abortion, on the second amendment, on immigration, on government spending, on national security - they are all squarely aligned with the majority of Americans. They are not, however, aligned with the media or the pop-culture brokers, so it's understandable that many people have the perception that my positions are extreme. The Republicans are not the extremists in this race.

As for being unpopular within Congress, well, that happens when you take strong, principled positions. It's no different than in any other job, really. Congress is famous for having a lower like-ability rating than used car salesmen. I like to think I'm one of the good used car salesmen, the one who tells you about the oil leak and the transmission that slips, and who refuses to 'tote the note' when I know you can't afford it. The sales manager may not like it, but at least I can sleep at night.

In regard to being self-serving, I have to admit, that truly offends me, but politics doesn't have the designated safe spaces of a gender-studies conference, so let me address that head on. Yes, I've used attention getting tactics, but that is only because leadership didn't lead. Yes, I've been abrasive and vocal and demanding, but only on critical issues that needed it, where we should not go-along-to-get-along, where the easy path is the wrong path. Some battles are too important to avoid for political expediency.

And now, let's talk about rules, about how they are elemental to civil society, about how those that disregard them are declaring themselves to be greater, better, or more important than you. This is the great divide in our society, those who play by the rules versus those who think they are above them.

Do we really need to make the list? Unconstitutional executive orders. Violation of federal regulations on retaining information. Backdoor hiring of advisers. Hiding relationships with lobbyists. Selectively enforcing immigration laws. Cronyism in general. Political donations propping up Planned Parenthood. Refusing to prosecute IRS officials caught persecuting citizens for their political beliefs. Do you need a list? Do you not see this everyday?

If you have ever observed a situation where an average Joe would be punished, but the politically connected or the famous and influential are not, then you recognize the injustice of the governing class, the privileged class, and 'for thee but not for me' justice. You see the biased reporting, the 'if-Bush-had-done-it' or 'if-a-Republican had done it' inconsistency in the headlines, the infidelities dismissed and even praised for some, which would cause a decent man life-long shame. You see it. We all see it.

Here's what I want you to know about me and rules. I follow them. When my critics refer to a 'failed filibuster' or a 'failed attempt to shutdown the government' please note that in those attempts, I followed the rules. I did not circumvent them to get my way. I did not consider myself above them. Those efforts may not have accomplished what they were intended to, but neither did they violate the rules. They were not unprincipled. You don't take shortcuts. You don't make your own rules. I follow the rules. I challenge the Democrats to make the same pledge, and I hope that Democratic voters recognize the power of this pledge, that though we may disagree, as President, I will abide by the Constitution and we will work to earn the respect of all citizens by upholding the law equally, for everyone.

And finally, let's talk about earned success. On the campaign trail I've not been shy in bragging about my roots, the work and solid foundation of my parents, the opportunities that America provides and that I took advantage of. The Democrats would tell you that 'earned success' is not possible, that the game is rigged by millionaires and billionaires and corporations and big this or big that. They call me extreme and unpopular and arrogant because they cannot afford for me, a product of American opportunity, to succeed, just like they cannot afford for a food stamp family to break the cycle or for a young woman to realize that the most powerful pro-choice comes before conception or for young people to learn that education and success does not require indebtedness.

The Democrats have spent decades deconstructing the family, the incubator of earned success, and undermining the path smoothing power of personal responsibility. All of our current societal woes, from urban violence to economic insecurity to foreign policy chaos, can be laid at the feet of failed Democratic plans and policies, and the Republicans who enable them by putting politics ahead of principle. Government cannot make you successful, but it can get in your way. Billionaires and corporations are not scheming behind the scenes to prevent you from reaching your goals, but they can use an oversized government to skew the market to their advantage.

The government cannot make you perfectly safe or permanently comfortable. It can, however, create an environment that allows you to be your best, and then get out of your way and let you do it. My goal is to rebuild your trust in the American idea, and your belief in yourself. I'm asking for your vote, not because you can count on me as a compromiser, a consensus builder, slickly manipulating the levers of power to advance an agenda, but because we believe in the same principles - honesty, the rule of law and personal responsibility. I'm asking you to cast your vote for principle, not promises and personality. America does not need fundamental change, it needs to return to fundamental principles.

Snippets

The boy has graduated from high school and will be moving off to the inhospitable northeast in a few short weeks. My inclination is to compile some sort of final list of dos and donts, some words to live by from the old man, but we all know that a black and white list of rules rarely satisfies, and even more rarely suffices as advice for living.

And so I find myself searching for something to say, something that needs to be said, something pithy, and preferably something of timeless value. I've got nothing. I've had a little over 18 years to share what I know about how to live and survive with this baby boy that's become a young man, and now it seems too late to cram in the last crucial bits, as if I have any to share anyway. I've lived my life in much more of an observe and react mode than a plan and execute mode; there's no way I can piece the journey back together and extract the wisdom, primarily because not a lot of wisdom was involved in the first place.

Like the imminent test, at this point he either gets it or he doesn't. Poor fellow. He should've picked better parents.

Oh, I have tons of practical advice. For example, set your drink limit at two, though in my personal experience, once you get to two, three is inevitable. Or, it's perfectly fine to meet and marry a woman of the north, aka: a Yankee, as long as she is wealthy enough to make up for that deficiency. Or, try to  memorize a few snippets of Shakespeare or Shelley (not the Frankenstein one); it might come in handy. That sort of advice has some value, but I'm not sure it's appropriate for this significant life change. I know my college years were a clear line of demarcation, and I expect his to be the same. It's a shame that all I have to offer are jaded observations, not the words to live by that I've always wished had been clearly given to me.

I say that, wishing for words to live by, because somehow I think it would have made the journey easier to have a compass point, a guiding light, something more concrete than 'Please God, help me make the right choices today.' There have been many times in my life when I've sat and wondered "where to next?" or "how did I get here?" or "how did I get here!" and for some reason I think it might have been better if I had known what was next, if I had known what choices had landed me in this particular trouble or that particular delight. But now, thinking back on the jumble of turning points, the risks taken and those not, the over-thought and what-the-hell decisions, I realize mine was not to be a well-planned, comfortable journey. And I wouldn't trade it. I own it. It's mine.

I suppose, in a pinch, that would be my advice, Griffin. Own it. That attractive young woman in your freshman English class? Ask her out or don't, but own that decision and don't regret it. Take the course that requires more effort, or don't. Just admit it was your choice and if, later on, it turns out to be a poor one, make a better choice next time. Throughout life we all have the option, the choice, to become a better person, to improve ourselves, to change our course for the better. In our current society, heading off to college is the perfect chance to do that. I love you, but you are not perfect. You will make bad decisions. Own them. Do better next time. Take advantage of this opportunity; it seems the stakes get higher the older you get.

And now, in a sort of metaphysical "Dad, please stop talking you are embarrassing me" way, I'd like to share something that may be helpful. Or it may not. You decide.

Throughout my life I have encountered what I call "all right" moments, when it simply feels like I am in the right place, doing the right thing. In a weird way, Matthew McConaughey's catchphrase,

"alright, alright, alright" speaks to me. When I hear him say it, it's about being "in tune", in the right moment, at some special nexus. I can tell you now that when we visited Lehigh it felt right. It's why I insisted on a photo, even though a casual glance reveals your epic eye-roll attitude. I'm glad you chose the school, even though it costs way too much. Just own it.


I remember sitting on the back porch of a ratty old rent house on Avenue A in Denton, Texas, with Dr. Matt doing his best to grill some on-sale sirloins on a home-made hibachi and thinking, "I am where I belong."

I remember humbly asking for my job back, after quitting from some immature snit that I immediately knew was not right, and David Johnson graciously letting me come back.

I remember being at the gate at the Atlanta-Hartsfield airport on Labor Day weekend 1982, waiting for your mother to arrive, who at the time was my long-distance girlfriend, and thinking, "I have to ask her."

I remember driving home from Baylor Hospital in Dallas in late September, 1996, in your mother's Lexus, with the moon roof open and the radio blasting, and being absolutely certain that we were ready for the big change in our lives that had just happened.

I remember riding in the pickup with you in March 2001, shortly after my father's funeral. You were 4 years old and out of the blue you said "The good cowboys always get the girl, don't they." And I said "Yes. Yes they do."

I remember waking up with what seemed like an imperative to-do one day, to introduce Pastor Cheryl to Uncle Neil. I frequently thank God for that one.

I remember sitting at a picnic table in a park in Frisco, praying for a sign in our search for a new pastor at Bentwood Trail, and a few minutes later seeing a purple lightning bolt on the projector screen, just before Pastor Elizabeth began her sermon.

I remember meeting your mother in the garage, the day she came home with her biopsy results, and she hugged me and she cried and she wanted to know how we were going to tell you. And despite me being as scared as she was, I knew I was in the right place, and that she was wrong to be worried about you. I knew you would be a strength and a comfort for her, not a source of concern.

And now, today, tonight, as I sit listening to random music, sipping on that second drink, or maybe the third, trying to put something coherent together, because writing is now what I do to deal with these life-changing way-points, I realize that you have already given me the "all right" moment. It is Bach, Suite No. 1 (click to hear).

I listen to it daily. It's a minute forty-seven, just a snippet of you playing saxophone at church, and I long to hear more. I want to hear the full piece. I want to know how it ends. I want to be awed by your musicianship, and wonder "was that a mistake, or intentional?" I want to say "this is mine, I made this possible," but I know it's yours. That you own it, and that it, and what it represents, is all right. Your talent. Your work. Your choices. It is the evidence of your path so far, and it gives me comfort that it's gonna be all right in the future.

Short Stories

 Last week, after church, starting around 3PM, I drove from Plano to Amarillo. It’s about a 6 hour drive, but I made it in 5 and a half. Driving alone always helps you make better time. I drove and listened to music, letting the songs and the scenery suggest things to think about. One of my father’s many jobs was truck driver. I believe I inherited something from him that makes highway driving a comfort.

Along the way, between Quanah and Childress, the sun began to set. It was not one of those majestic, cloud and color infused sunsets. The sky was clear. I was headed west, very aware of the entire process as the sun slid down behind the A-pillar on the windshield. Once it started it didn’t take long. The mostly flat terrain put the horizon at the limit of my sight and I realized that light from the sunset could be seen for 180 degrees, growing fainter at each end. The glow was in front of me. The horizon in my rear view mirror was much darker. I have noticed that phenomena many times, always while driving, and almost always while heading home.

Late Monday afternoon I started the drive back. This time I had company; Elizabeth hitched a ride back. Instead of taking the most direct route, we went a bit out of our way and stopped in Alanreed. My parents are buried there, well, their ashes are, and when I get the chance  I like to stop, pay my respects, say a quick prayer of thanks and simply absorb the time and place. It calms me. It helps me remember who I am.

The cemetery in Alanreed is just off of Interstate 40. I have yet to visit without hearing semis rumble past. It sits on the slope of a hill. Overlooking the interstate I see rolling ranch lands, some scrub brush, some tough old cedars, wash outs and draws and barbed wire fences. The trucks and other highway sounds never bother me because they belong, and besides, the scenery transports me back in time to pickup rides with the windows down along dusty roads, and horseback riding while watching out for soapweed and prickly pear, smelling horse sweat and leather. I taste the dust, feel the heat and sweat or the cold and chills and smell the grass, the dirt, the always sharp and dry air.

We didn’t stay long, just long enough for a review of family members by marker and my short time traveling experience. And then we were on the road, joining the traffic parade, for a short while on I-40, formerly known as Route 66, and then a jog south on Highway 83 at Shamrock to catch Highway 287 in Childress. Two eighty seven is a highway I know well, including all the places where speeding tickets are likely, where to find reasonably clean restrooms and where to change lanes to get ready to exit.

The sun seemed to set early on us, going down for good somewhere between Shamrock and Childress. On the dark drive back, instead of music and scenery pushing my thoughts, this time, with company, they were pulled from me as Elizabeth asked questions, prompting me for stories that she knows I love to tell. The good ones, of course, she’d already heard and I had to catch myself a few times, to stop the re-telling. Elizabeth and I have traded stories before, and it seemed a waste to tell an old one. This seemed to be a time for new stories, for exploring, for reflecting and searching for an understanding of the past as preparation for the future.

I’m always careful in the telling, searching my memory for details, feeling around for the right emphasis, aiming for the right mood and tone. The listener? Well, they are on their own to glean what they might.

The driving was, in the everyday sense, an unremarkable 12 or so hours, there and back. In the grand scheme, in the bigger picture, it was a wonder, like so many common things are and yet, we rarely recognize it. I’ve known for a long time that there are always more questions than answers. It’s trips and times like this one that help me understand that we don’t have answers to the biggest questions, we only have stories, approximations of answers, and they, sometimes, for a discerning listener, will point to the truth.

Name That Tune

If you've had a discussion with me since, oh, March 2014, you know that we are in full blown college research and application mode. Frankly, it's a little disturbing to me. Why, back in my day (Sonny Boy!) you could get into college if your check didn't bounce. It's a bit different today. Colleges seem to be, on the one hand, more selective and, on the other, expecting everyone to graduate high school and shuffle off to university. In a lot of ways the higher education system is broken, but before I get too distracted with the politics and policy of it all, I want to tell a story.

Our son is applying to several universities. I will be tickled if he attends any of them; they are all good schools. But in the process of researching, visiting, evaluating and applying I've developed a new, to me, appreciation of my son, and the man he is becoming. Some of what I see is concerning, but mostly, I'm proud. I think he's a fine young man, which, I imagine, makes me no different than any other parent. How I came to this new appreciation is not terribly unique either. We spent spring break driving from Pittsburgh to Atlanta, just me and the boy, visiting various schools and having some long talks while driving, when he wasn't overly involved in video games or texting or sleeping. We took another school exploration trip in the summer, this time with his mother, which added another dimension to my observations. Since then we have had many discussions on the pros and cons of all the schools and our friends have quizzed him on his plans. It's interesting to learn what he thinks is important which, unsurprisingly, doesn't match up exactly with my thoughts. In any case, I can see the transition coming from following Mom & Dad's lead to following his own. A little scary, yes, but equally exciting. I suppose I should begin the story, now that you have the background.

He has applied to Rice University. It was one of my dream schools when I graduated, and I think it might be beyond his reach, but hey, as they say in golf, 'never up, never in,' and we encouraged him to go for it. He's done all the right things ... campus visits, retaking standardized tests, agonizing over essays. He even went to the optional interview and is applying early decision, which means if he's accepted he is obligated to attend. The college admission soothsayers say it demonstrates sincere interest and committment. I'm okay with it, since from my perspective it is the best fit. Unfortunately, the boy has never been fully invested in grades or GPA. In any case, we will find out at some point if the effort has been sufficient.

A traditional feature of the Rice University application is "the box." It asks the applicant some generic sort of question and they are asked to put something in "the box." The prompt this year was "what appeals to you?" and applicants were asked to upload an image or graphic that appeals to them. No explanation, no rules, no penalty (theoretically) if you choose not to; it's just another way for the admissions counselors to see something 'outside the box' of the admissions process. I would have posted a picture of a bell ... a-"peal"-ing ... get it? ... but he has a bit more invested in this process than me (at this point) and probably would not be receptive to my punny suggestion. Instead, out of the blue, on Sunday, he asked me if we had any pictures of the pipe organ at church. I could not imagine what he needed pipe organ pictures for, and then he explained.

"I have to upload a picture of something that appeals to me for the Rice application. I've thought about it a lot and I think the church organ is what I want to use. It's music and engineering, combined, the two things I'd like to study in college."

Hard to argue with that logic so, dutiful father that I am, I went in search of pipe organ photos. I was
shocked at how many we had ... everything from the elevation drawing to components before the organ was assembled (see above) to various worship and festival services to a group of African students dancing and singing in front of it. Our applicant wanted a photo that reflected both music and engineering, so we combined a couple and came up with this:

I've often described our son as having a math and science mind, with the eyes and ears of an artist, and I think his choice for "the box" reflects that pretty well. Now, as flattering as all this may seem for the boy, it's not really the takeaway I get from this story. Let me explain.

The pipe organ may have been a clever choice, but what struck me in all this is the constancy of the pipe organ as a backdrop in our life. Now you might take this to mean that we've spent a lot of time in the church sanctuary, and that would be true. Or, you might take it to mean that people take pictures when they get dressed up or attend special events, both of which happen frequently at a church, and that would be true, too. Or perhaps the pipe organ simply came to mind because last Sunday happened to be the 10th anniversary of its dedication, and the church was filled with glorious music that was impossible to ignore. That, unfortunately, is not completely true.

As I was walking in to church that Sunday morning, I took two steps from my truck and heard the

organ. Our organist was practicing, and rocking the house. I could hear it across the parking lot, with the doors to the church closed, and I thought, "Wow. Awesome.", wondering what was in store musically for worship. I didn't realize it was the anniversary yet. As I approached the church there were two separate people walking their dogs, cutting across our parking lot to get to the park across the street. Both were focused on their dogs, heads down, with a deliberate steady pace. They never seemed to acknowledge the music. They seemed oblivious.

When I shared the dog walker story with my Sunday School class one friend pointed out that the dog walkers were probably making sure their dogs weren't pooping. Our pastor commented that she would not be surprised if that was the case because 'we spend our lives surrounded by the glory of God, but are too busy looking for sh** to notice.'

And that's what I mean by constancy. I am no better than the dog walkers; I am not judging them. I heard the music because it has been a constant in my life for many years. They did not hear it, or chose to ignore it, because it did not belong to them, it was not part of their life. Don't misunderstand. I am not claiming that God only belongs to church-goers. What I'm trying to say is that in this miraculous world it is all too easy to focus on today's concerns, last week's disappointments, tomorrow's fears and completely miss the miracles.

To see or hear or participate in miracles you must seek them, become attuned to the song that is written by God on your heart and listen for that melody, however faint it might be, in your everyday life. The Sanctuary Pipe Organ at Bentwood Trail Presbyterian Church in Dallas, Texas has provided a soundtrack, embedding the wide range of God's song in my mind, in my hearing. It has lifted me up. It has consecrated vows. It has glorified saints. It has encouraged faith, inspired confidence and made God appealing in a unique way to a special young man. But to witness this miracle, to be a part of it, you have to be there, you have to make it part of your life or it is too easy to overlook.

P.S. This is the one I really wanted him to use in "the box," but for some reason he wasn't too keen on it: