The Church that Built Me

Tonight, we celebrated Jerry and Sandra Baker and Virginia McCrory.  They all three have worked tirelessly at Central Church for a long, long time.  As we shared stories about them, I thought about how Sandra Baker was the first Sunday school teacher I ever had.  I must have been 4.  I grew up with Jerry and Sandra's kids, Cindy, Kim, and David, though Cindy was several years older than me.  Fast-forward many years, and I wound up teaching their grandson Mitch at both Straughn and then at LBW.  Life comes full circle.  Jerry was one of my dad's groomsmen.  Just typing that makes me get all nostalgic.  

At some point, I left the fellowship hall to go see what my kids were doing, and as I passed this room I stopped and stared a bit.

When I was a kid, my mother was the secretary at church.  This room was her office.  It's now a teachers' work room.  It still smells the same.  It is said that smell is the scent tied most closely to memory, and I believe it.  The scent of that room took me back over 30 years.  To winter time.  To those Saturday nights that my mother would take me and my brother and sister up the building so she could finish the church bulletin.  

I can still remember the small electric heater she would use to heat the room in the dead of winter.  

I can still remember being scared of the church building at night because it was so pitch black in there.  

I can still hear the Swintec typewriter on which she typed the bulletin.  

I can still remember the White-Out she'd use when she made mistakes, which was almost never.  

I can still remember the smell of the copy paper as it came shooting out of the copying machine.  

I can still remember feeling so....normal....being a kid in a church building on a Saturday night.  

I guess I thought that was just what you did on a Saturday night.  

My mother remained the secretary until sometime shortly after my sophomore year of high school.  I'd later graduate high school, move to Troy, start attending another church, get married, have kids, change churches, change churches again, get divorced, heal from that (mostly), and somehow, 2.5 years ago, find myself back at Central.  

It's not the same as it was when I was 16.  And yet it's somehow exactly the same.  It's a community of wonderfully imperfect believers.  It's a family of all types.  All colors.  All backgrounds.  And it has blessed me so much.  I have seen love, mercy, and grace demonstrated there in unbelievable ways.  

Miranda Lambert sang a song about the "house that built me."  I suppose the same thing can apply to a church.  I walk the hall in the educational wing, and I'm a kid again.  The tapestry in the baptistry has remained unchanged since the Renaissance.  I grew up there.  And I continue to grow up there.  I was built there, at least partially.  And I'm glad my kids will be built there, at least partially.  

Jerry and Sandra, and Virginia, you are part of my raising, and I can't thank you enough.  Everyone else at Central, thank you too.  

God Bless.  

"The Camino provides."

--A commonly heard expression along El Camino de Santiago

Some trips we take for business.  Some trips we take for pleasure.  Some trips are required.  Some trips are our choosing.  Some trips wind up being straight from hell.  Some trips we never forget. And some trips...well, they change your life forever.  Such was my experience on El Camino de Santiago last May, and God willing, I hope to return to Spain in 6 months, this time taking my son Jack with me. 

El Camino de Santiago, or The Way of St. James, is a route across northern Spain that has been followed by Catholics on pilgrimage to the tomb of St. James since the Crusades.  There are multiple routes, the most popular being the French Way, which I walked.  It begins in St. Jean Pied de Port, France, crosses the Pyrenees Mountains into Navarra, crosses the Maseta, on into Galicia, to Santiago de Compostela, and then on to Finesterre (End of the World).  The French Way is about 800 km and usually takes about 40 days.  I walked for only 8 days and covered 188 km.  

I've done a decent amount of hiking and backpacking, but none like what I experienced on El Camino.  Tents are not required.  Pilgrims stay in albergues (hostels), some of which are municipal, some of which are privately owned, and some of which are run by the Catholic church.  I think the most I paid for a night's lodging was 20 euros, about $26.  Food was EVERYWHERE, and I ate lots of it.  Bread. Soup.  Fruit.  The best orange juice I've ever had!  Meat!  The Spaniards love meat.   And people.  LOTS OF PEOPLE.  

A friend of mine who walked El Camino a month before I did asked me what my top 10 Camino moments were, and in thinking back I thought I'd share them with whichever of you poor people are actually reading this drivel...

Here goes....

1.  St. Jean Pied de Port, France.  

This place is really, really old world.  I rode a bus here from Pamplona, Spain.  I'd seen countless versions of this picture while doing my Camino research.  The albergue I stayed in was owned by a Basque named Alain.  He didn't speak much English, but he made excellent home-made bread.  On the right side of the bridge in this picture is a cafe...I couldn't resist asking for a margarita, just so I could see the reaction of the French owners.  Priceless! But they didn't appreciate it. lol.  I was only in France for one night.  About 3 hours into the first day of walking, I crossed over into Spain and left France behind.  

2.  Mario and Kathryn.  

Ironically, I don't have a photo of either of these people, but they were the first two people I met on the Camino.  Mario is from Italy.  I met him on the bus from Pamplona to SJPP...he was the last one on and I was sitting by myself.  He knew more English than I knew Italian, but Google Translate helped.  He didn't have an albergue reserved in SJPP so I told him where I was staying and he stayed there.  Kathryn, an Australian,  was already checked in to our albergue when we arrived.  Mario and Kathryn and I ate dinner that night and talked about the routes we would take back into Spain.  Kathryn and I decided we'd walk over the Pyrenees Mountains, and Mario decided to take the road walk--he said his knees were not as young as they used to be.  I saw Mario only once more after that night, and Kathryn only twice more. 

3.  Walking over the Pyrenees. 

When I got to the top of Col de Lepoeder, I said to everyone who could hear me "this is the hardest day I've ever had hiking."  We all laughed at each other's struggle.  The view speaks for itself.  The Pyrenees aren't as high as the Rockies or even the Appalachians, but it was cool to walk over them.

4.  Crossing the very first Camino marker in St. Jean.

Somehow, putting my foot on this piece of brass as I began that morning made it all the more real that I was actually there.  On the other side of the Atlantic.  Alone.  Boom.  Let's do it.

5.  Roncesvalles

I was fully aware of Charlemagne.  I teach about him in my music appreciation class.  Roncesvalles was where he died in 778.  It was also my destination on day 1 of El Camino.  When I got there, I waited nearly 2 hours to get checked in.  The albergue there has over 200 beds and they were all booked.  The church and the albergue are all one big compound.  It's hard to tell what's 10 centuries old and what's only 5 centuries old.  

This church dates from the 1200s.  I sat inside it for nearly an hour, thinking about life.  Thinking about how amazing it is that there are structures still standing from before the Magna Carta was signed.  In our throw-away world, this was refreshing.  

6.  Will, Trevor, Julie, Augusta, Liv, Beverly, and the UNC crew. 

These were the people I walked with the most.  Will and Trevor are Brits.  Will publishes an outdoor magazine.  Trevor works in aerospace.  Julie is Canadian/American.  Liv is Swedish.  Beverly lives in Nashville.  The UNC crew were students from Chapel Hill and two of their professors.  Great kids! All of these I met on the first portion of the Camino and they were really the only ones I talked and walked with.  After the third day, I took the train over to the final portion of the route and never saw them again.  I didn't really talk to too many people during the final 5 days of the walk other than to say "Buen Camino" or "hey, what's up!" But there's a bond between pilgrims on the Camino.  

7.  Pamplona.  

When I found Will and Trevor at the tapas bar, Will said "Yeah, I don't think anyone in Pamplona's having a bad time!"  I've never seen any other place like it.  Every man, woman, and child looked like supermodels.  Dressed to the 9s and having a great time!  It was like the whole town was the red carpet at an awards show.  And the food was unreal.   Cheerio!

8.  The lady who owned the albergue in Arzua.

On day 6 of walking, kindness came in the form of the 5-foot nothing of a lady who owned the place I stayed in Arzua.  I had blisters the size of silver dollars, but I knew I had to find a pharmacia..so off I went, down the street.  She chased me down and offered to drive me.  I declined but was thankful.  Nothing like being 6000 miles away from home and realizing just how much we take Walmart for granted when we need something.  By the way, a pharmacia in Spain might have blister pads...and it might not! 

9.  Celtic ruins near Palas de Rei.

6000 years BC.  Enough said.  

10.   The cathedral in Santiago.  

After 116 miles of up and down and up down, and up and down some more, I walked into Santiago--which by way DOES NOT mean you are anywhere near the cathedral yet.  I met some dude from Germany and we found the cathedral.  We got in line to get our compostela--a certificate in Latin, and then we parted ways and I toured the cathedral.  Old doesn't even describe it.  Nor does huge.  

It felt good to stand there with my trekking poles over my head, half wondering if the random tourist I asked to take my picture would run off with my phone or not....

The Camino provides, they say.  And it did.  It provided when the albergue in Arzua drove my Crocs to the next town because I left them there--and didn't charge me.  It provided in the Pyrenees when I found potable water.  It provided when my head was about to split open and Julie had Advil on hand right at the moment I passed her.  It provided Burger King and Wi-Fi when I was really craving some American food and wanted to text my kids when I got to Pamplona.  It provided a feeling of community with complete strangers, who in reality weren't strangers at all.  It's an experience that can't be explained.  While I'm not Catholic, it was capital A Amazing to walk and talk with people who were Catholic and listen to them talk with exuberance at the possibility to kneel at the bones of St. James.  El Camino is physical. It's religious.  It's spiritual.  And more.  

While it wasn't exactly cheap, it also wasn't all that expensive.  I spent about 20 bucks each night on lodging.  A three-course menu peregrino (pilgrims meal) was about 10 bucks.  The train rides I had to take were about $45.  And if you use the Hopper app, you can find some cheap air-fare. 

If you're looking for something completely different to do, go experience El Camino.  It'll change your life forever.  I promise.  

"For unto us a child is born..." 

--Isaiah 9:6

It's Christmas Day.  Where to even begin writing about this day???  Scrolling through Facebook this morning reinforces that Christmas means SO MANY THINGS to people.  It means family.  It means food.  It means campfires.  It means traveling.  It means Kitchen-Aid mixers. It means fruitcake, for some reason.  It means finding your truck that was stolen months ago (Jeff Hudson, I'm glad it turned up!)  Heck, it even means you might find horses in your front yard! 

I walked outside to check yesterday's mail, and there they were!  Eating my grass.  I looked around, half expecting a film crew trying to get a good laugh at my expense.  

Christmas means all of this....and it means other things as well.  

The rest of this will be quite transparent, but it ends well, so heads up....

Christmas is hard, and I don't mean financially.  I have actually said to myself this Christmas, and more than once, "I will be glad when Christmas is over."  And I HATE that I feel that way.  I really do.  Without full disclosure of the wherefore's and the hitherto's, suffice it to say that often times, Christmas reminds me of things I'd rather forget.  And that's where I found myself this year. 

I've really struggled with many things, as I suspect most anyone has.  I also was blessed in many ways as well, particularly with music.  I played The Nutcracker with Northwest Florida Ballet back in November, and that was then followed by 5 other Advent performances at various churches.  

I love music, obviously, but there's something about Christmas music....it is beautiful and haunting all at the same time.  During the rests, I listen to the singing...and when it's good, it'll make your spine tingle!  When I'm actually playing the horn, I'm so wrapped up in trying not to make mistakes, that I don't really notice what is happening esthetically.  When a gig ends, I'm kinda stunned, wondering "what just happened?"

Yesterday, I played two services in Pensacola.  One was at 4:30 at St. Paul Catholic Church. The next was at 10:30 at Christ Episcopal Church.  I took the gigs because my kids are typically at their mom's house on Christmas Eve--it's been that way since my divorce--so I figured some extra cash during the holidays couldn't hurt!  

So...about 6:00 arrives and the first service ends.  If you've ever been to a Catholic mass, particularly one during Advent or Lent, you know they are LONG.  They are also very solemn, and while I am not Catholic, I can appreciate their solemnity.  The mass has remained unchanged for almost 13 centuries.  It's a spectacle.  I watched from the organ loft as nearly 1300 people took the bread and the wine.  And from time to time, if I'm totally honest, my mind wondered "what in the heck are you doing here on Christmas Eve, you idiot?? Why aren't you at home??"  The service end, I change out of my suit, and now I have almost 4 hours to kill.  On Christmas Eve.  Alone.  In a town where almost nothing is open except Target and McDonalds.  And McDonalds is where I found myself after I spent nearly an hour in Target finalizing Christmas.  

McDonalds is not unlike any other fast-food joint.  But on Christmas Eve, it's different.  It's lonely.  Sure, there were lots of other people there.  Many were there in groups.  Yet they all seemed lonely.  I mean, I saw myself as unlike them...after all, I was only there because I was in town working and killing time.  But there I was.  

I texted some friends.  One of them I told "I'll never do this again."  Satan was slinging darts left and right.  I looked around wondering why all those teenagers weren't home with their families.  Maybe they don't have families.  Maybe they do and don't like them.  Maybe they've been shunned.  Heck, maybe they just like Mickey D's.  Who knows.  

It drew close to time to meet for the 1030 service, so I drove downtown.  Downtown Pensacola was lit up like a....you know it...a Christmas tree.  I found the church where I was to play, and remembered that it was the venue for the first concert I ever played with Four Seasons Brass.  Old Christ Church was built in 1832 and the current building was built in 1903.  That's not really that old considering Pensacola is about 500 years old.

So, we run through the music, most of it once because we're, well, pros.  HAHAHAHAHA.  But seriously, and then we took our seats.  It's now 10:30 pm, and I know that it will be 1:00 am when I get home, and in reality it was 1:30.  I was tired, and not just physically.  I was thankful to be playing, but I was tired.  We played several carols and hymns, and then the Rector got up to speak.  This is when the magic happened.  

He told the story of his son's birth.  The long and short of it was that his son was not breathing when he was born.  The nurses and doctors worked on him for several minutes before he started to breathe. He said he prayed more fervently than he had ever prayed before, and that his prayer was that he die in his son's place.   And in that moment,  I was back at Children's Hospital, Birmingham, on November 6, 2006--the day Drs. John Grant and Jeff Blount reconstructed by daughter's head in a mere six hours.  I remembered what I felt the day I found out she was to have the surgery.  I remember sitting down in the Milwaukee Airport when I was given the news.  And I remembered what it really means to love a child.  And most significantly, I thought about how much God loves us.  It's WAY beyond what we comprehend.   This sense of purpose came over me.  Purpose for why I was there.  That I needed to be there.  That I was supposed to hear that message.  That an evening in Pensacola away from family wasn't a total bust.  

It's really amazing how we get what we need at the moment we actually need it.  God showed up on Christmas morning all those years ago, as a baby in a manger.  And he showed up last night, reminding me that the world as I see it really isn't how it is at all.  I needed that.  And it came at exactly the right time.  

So...back to the top...I don't wish Christmas would just end.  I just needed a little realignment.  And it happened, last night, 80 miles from home, in a church building full of people I don't even know.  God is really something else.

Now...I'm about to get my kids and get my Christmas on!! 

Merry Christmas to you!!  

"Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree...."

--Ernst Anschütz, 1824

There is something about a Christmas tree.  Real. Fake. Fir. Pine. Silver metallic (some of y'all know you had one!) Pre-lit. Short. Tall. Doesn't really matter...Christmas trees inspire awe and wonder.  

Here's mine this year.  

Yes, I like black and white photography.  

Tonight, I ate dinner with my mom and we got to talking about Christmas and that got me thinking about my childhood.  At 308 Perry Street, we almost always put our tree up on the Saturday after Thanksgiving.  I think it was in the Constitution of the Brewer Family to do so.  I remember we had an extremely eclectic tree.  Ornaments from all over the place were on that tree. There were a few that came from my grandmother on my dad's side of the family, and a plethora of unique ornaments sent by my Aunt Laura.  I remember seeing trees elsewhere that had more of a unified approach to them. Not us.  Ours was completely a hodgepodge.  And mine is tonight as I type this.  

When I was a teenager, I was rather a night-owl, and I can remember sitting up many nights past midnight, in a chair that my grandparents had bought, probably in the 60s, but that we usually draped with a sheet or afghan or something. I can still hear the paneling in the house as it would expand and contract with the changing temperatures and humidity levels in the house.  I can still hear the wonderful gas heater that sat in the hallway--the one that when the fan kicked on, Thomas and Jeremie and I would compete to see who could lie down in front of it first.  The loser had to shower first in the mornings.  And I remember the Christmas tree.  I could stare at that thing for hours, getting lost in my own little world.  A world where dads and grandparents were still living.  A world where your girlfriend's mother actually liked you.  A world that just made sense.  

Seems like most years, my mother would decide well in advance which color lights she'd use.  She always said red lights made the living room hot.  Green made them cold.  Clear, well I don't know what they did.  And, who remember icicles??  What a mess those were!   But it was our mess.  And sometimes, I miss that mess.  My tree has multi-colored lights on it.  I think it's because that's what Walmart had when I went looking for lights that time.  

My favorite thing about a Christmas tree is that it's a story.  It's a story unique to the family that erects it each year, and each year, another chapter is added.  The kids are a year older.  The ornament collection becomes more diversified, just as a family does.  And it seems as though the more diverse the tree and the attached family become, the more it remains the same.  It represents that part of us that doesn't change, regardless of how much change occurs:  our tradition.  And wow, how important traditions are.  

When my mom and dad married, their first Christmas tree was 2 feet tall.  Mom never got rid of it, but she rarely uses it. When I went to her house today, she had put it together and it was sitting in her living room floor, about 4 feet away from where we put our tree throughout my childhood.  When I saw it, I smiled.  I smiled because of what that tree means to my mom.  And what it means to me.  It means the same thing that all Christmas trees mean.  It means FAMILY.  

Merry Christmas to you all.  God Bless.  

"Ahh, music, he said, wiping his eye...a magic beyond 

all we do here."****

--J.K. Rowling

Today is the celebration of Beethoven's 248th birthday--his baptism occurred on the 17th.  He changed music more than any composer before him, and most who came after him, particularly in the Romantic period, revered him.  Schubert even asked to be buried next to him.  Now, I don't dare compare myself to Beethoven, but he and I have many things in common, chief among them is the belief in the power of music.  Music has never failed me once, and I look to it often to.....make things better.  

Yesterday, I got to play a cantata alongside my 16-year-old son, Grant.  It was a pretty amazing experience.  Music has always been something Grant and I have shared, but it was usually in a teacher-student relationship.  Today, we were peers.  Equals.  I got to create art with my kid!  At times, while counting 82 measures of rests, I'd look over at Grant, notice the focus on his face, and then thrill at both the touch and musicianship with which he played.  Still in awe.  Great job, son.  Thank you, Paula Sue Duebelt, for trusting my call to hire students to play in your cantata. 

When you play music for an audience, and if it's great music, and if you're doing your job as a musician, you get caught up in the music.  You might say you get lost in it.  It's transcendental.  It becomes you. You become it.  Horn player to your right, trombone and tuba to your left, pianist, strings, keyboard, and woodwinds to your far right, and percussion in front of you, you become a unit, unified through melody, harmony, and rhythm across the space between you.  Sound appears out of thin air!  It's magic!  And it's a magic beyond any I know.  And the best part is that people actually sit and listen to you.  Some of them wish they could be you.

In my music appreciation classes, I'm often asked what my favorite music is.  That's hard to answer, as it is for all musicians.  Sometimes I've been asked what the best performance I've ever seen, or the best concert I've ever been to.  Surprisingly, I've been to very few concerts. Here are a few...

While I'm not a huge country music fan, I did hear Brad Paisley at the Grand Ole Opry once.  It was the night before Easter Sunday, and he played "I Come to the Garden Alone" and "Old Rugged Cross."  It was him, a guitar, a microphone, and spotlight.  It was completely over the top, and I've never forgotten it.  One person, holding 1000 persons in the palm of his hand.  Transfixed.  That's what music does.

When I was in 10th grade, I went to hear the legend--Maynard Ferguson.  That dude was 70 years old and still playing in the stratosphere on trumpet.  I left there that night wanting to know how to play that high.  It only took 30 years to figure out.  LOL.  How Dennis Haddaway got him to come to W.S. Neal High School, I'll never know.

Another life-changing performance I heard once was the National Symphony Orchestra in Dothan, Alabama.  Barry Jekowsky was conducting that night.  I guess Leonard Slatkin was sick.  This was the first time I ever heard Adagio for Strings by Samuel Barber.  I consider this to be the greatest piece of music written by an American.  I've played it twice, transcribed for brass ensemble, and it crushed me both times.

About ten years ago, I got to see Blues Traveler at Vinyl Music Hall in Pensacola.  If you've never heard John Popper play harmonica, you don't know what harmonica playing is.  Ri. Dic. U. Litis.

Twice, I've seen Dave Matthews Band.  Both times were in Oak Mountain Amphitheater and both times were spellbinding.  I also probably was high from second hand reefer.  #InherentRisk.

And this doesn't even cover the concerts I've been blessed to play.  I think I played 10 or 11 world premiers while I was at Troy, some by Ralph Ford, some by Robert W. Smith.  Playing under Arnald Gabriel made me realize that you best know your music...because Arnald knows it!  From memory!
Playing under Ray Cramer taught me that yes, you can wear denim and cowboy boots and still be insanely artistic on the conductors podium.   I could go on about Troy, but that will suffice.

When I think back over all that, I'm humbled and grateful.  Being an artist is an experience that cannot be described in words.  You have to experience it first-hand, and thankfully, I've been able to.

Wow....lots of big-name artists in this post....but my favorite one is Grant.

Have a great day.

"The Struggle Is Real"

--some millennial in my class one time

I was talking to one of my kids recently and I told them that every single thing that I have that is worth something to me came with great struggle.  To wit..

My job.  

I worked very hard in Ramona Franklin's psychology class when I was at LBW!  Psychology was like a foreign language to me, having never taken a class in it in high school.  Taking a year off from school because I was completely without motivation was hard.  My time at Troy was a struggle.  My first job, at Andalusia Middle School, was very hard.  It was probably harder for my students, and I am sorry you had me when I was wet behind the ears as a teacher--I didn't know much.  Going to graduate school was hard.  One summer I took 18 graduate level hours in 5 weeks.  Getting this job at LBW took a lot of work!  And wow, was it worth it!  

My kids.  

Every single person reading this who has children knows how hard it is to raise kids.  From diapers to terrible 2s to adolescence to seeing them leave the nest (which will happen for me soon with Grant)....it's all very, very difficult.  Thrown in a divorce, and it is only compounded.  But when I get to play music with my kids, or take them camping, or laugh at movies, or give them gifts at Christmas, all the struggle seems to evaporate right before my eyes.  

My house.

Mortgages.  'Nuff said.

My music.

I have no idea how much time I've spent practicing the trumpet.  Or how many lessons I've taught.  Or how many lectures I've given.  Or how many tests I've graded.  Some days, I leave the classroom feeling like I didn't make one bit of difference.  What's it all even for?? But then a kid says "thanks for helping me be a better player."  And that outweighs all the stress of being a professional teacher/musician.  

My constant awesomeness. 

Now that, is a struggle!  It's exhausting.  I don't know how Superman did it.  I'm just kidding!

The truth is there is no great thing without some struggle.  Some pain.  Some loss.  Some cost.  And while the cost may NOT be paid BY ME, there is always a cost.  I think it's important for us to remember that.  To be mindful of the cost of things.  Not the price, but the cost.  

The price is how much money you had to give up for something.  The cost is all the other stuff you had to forfeit in order to buy it.  

I hear things like "it didn't cost anything."  Maybe not money.  But it probably cost time.  And is there a more valuable commodity than time??  If there is, tell me what it is.  I'll wait.

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Ok, I got tired of waiting.

We don't appreciate things we don't struggle for.  We all know it.  Ask anyone who's done Couch-to-5K how much they appreciate what they've done for themselves.  Or someone who learned to play an instrument.  Or someone who learned to walk again after an injury.  Or someone who learned to go on with life when all seemed pointless.  They all struggled, and they all got results.  

In the film A League of Their Own, Tom Hanks' character is talking to the girls and he says this immortal line:  "It's supposed to be hard.  If it wasn't hard, everyone would do it.  The 'hard' is what makes it great."  (Anyone involved with Southwind knows exactly why it choked me up a bit just to type that.)

On my desk sits a framed quote which says "Life is 10% what happens to you, and 90% how you respond to it.  The struggles are coming.  They're probably always here, actually.  How we respond to them determines everything.  

Have a great day!!

"Maybe Christmas doesn't come from a store..."

--Dr. Seuss, How the Grinch Stole Christmas

When I was 8 years old, my grandmother died.  She died in October if I remember right, and for Christmas that year, my Aunt Laura flew us up to her home in New York for Christmas.  How in the world my mother took three small kids through the Atlanta airport is beyond me.  

My Aunt Laura lived in Pound Ridge, New York at the time.  Around the corner lived Fred Gwynne, who played Herman Munster.  It was a nice neighborhood!  Her house was perched on a hill overlooking a picturesque creek running through the woods.  It was straight out of a Hallmark gift card. I'd never seen so much snow in my life.  I can still remember my mom waking me up to come to the window to look at deer in the back yard.  I also remember feeling like her house was gigantic--much bigger than the 1200 square feet I grew up in.  Tall ceilings.  Fireplaces.  The opulence made an impression on me.  Maybe too much of one, but anyway...

For several years after that, Laura would send us Christmas ornaments each year.  They were always one of a kind and each year of my childhood, when we put up the tree, we always talked about what year we got each ornament.  Just typing that last sentence brings back a LOT of Christmas memories.  

Of all the ornaments I ever got, my favorite was this one.

I'm not sure why it was my favorite.  I've only ice-skated once, and I held onto the wall as I went around the rink in Eastdale Mall at a blistering pace of .06 mph.  Maybe it's because I wished I could ice skate.  Or maybe it's because it represented the fantasy world that we all have in our heads--the world of make-believe...the world of what we wish we had but don't.  Wait...that's crazy... it's just a piece of wood!  Right??

Christmas, to me, has always been about wonder.  The wonder in a child's eyes as he sits on his grandparents' couch thumbing through the Wish Book from JCP or Sears.  The wonder of a parent as she waits eagerly for her son to get home from Fort Drum.  The wonder of believers who still to this day marvel at the idea that perfection would leave Heaven and come down to this dump of a place called Earth.

And every time I open the box of Christmas ornaments, I am one year older, and the sense of wonder that I feel is somewhat different than last year, but yet the same.  I wonder at my kids' wonder.  I watch them stare at the presents under the tree, eagerly awaiting the tearing open of the wrapping paper.  It's truly awesome to give.

And yet, at the same exact time, Christmas has always been slightly tinged with a smidge of sadness. It's a time in which people really struggle.  With loneliness.  With anxiety.  With sadness.  With missing a family member.  With debt.   Divorce never seems so real as it does on a holiday.  The first Christmas after losing a loved one is always the hardest one.  And God forbid that we lose someone ON a holiday...but it does happen.

So...there's wonder and amazement...and there's sadness.  Two roads diverged in a yellow wood...right??

It's all about focus and perspective, really.  I have learned through hardship that God can reveal amazing things in life even through the darkest darkness.  I just have to look for the good, and once I find it, stare at it!!!

This week, there will be a Christmas parade.  It will be filled with wonder, and it will be an awesome celebration of community and Christmas.  But that's 88 hours away! What about the space between now and then?  There's wonder in all that space, too!!  The smile of a student who is having a good day.  One person giving another person the parking space.  Cookies in the faculty lounge.  Walking into the Dixon Center, and being greeted by two co-workers who tell you how they are already building storage shelves in your equipment truck.  The trash you sweep up that reminds you of family being at your house.  Trying out for a play and having a blast.  Andalusia going to the semifinals. A brief conversation with a kid you don't even know about how awesome bicycles and motorcycles are.  Your son making a great score on test he thought he'd bomb. The jokes your kid tells on the way to school.  It's all WONDER.  All of it.

We spend a lot of time and energy waiting for the next "thing" to occur or the next "time" to arrive, and wow, what do we miss in the present, and if you add that to the commercialism that Christmas is wrapped up in, well, we're just a stone's throw away from the Klonopin!! That's no way to live.  We need to re-focus.  We need to remember why Christmas is and what Christmas is.  And what it's not. We need to go back to square one and start over.  Hey, I'm all about capitalism...it drives our economy, after all, and as a state employee I benefit directly from all the tax dollars...but how's about some balance, K??


So, maybe Dr. Seuss was right...maybe Christmas doesn't come from a store.  Maybe it's something more.  Merry Christmas, people!  I'm thankful for you all.

"Just breathe."

--Eddie Vedder, Pearl Jam

I first knew Pearl Jam's music by way of Josh and Ben Bates and John Ossenfort.  Thank you, guys, for introducing me to this monumental band.  

A few weeks ago, I was standing on the sideline of Andalusia's football field waiting for the game to start.  I was talking to a friend of mine who had recently judged a band contest and he was a little bummed because he felt like he had made the wrong call on a Best-In-Class award.  I thought about how many times I've judged and later felt like I made the wrong call.  He continued talking about how it had bothered him for the whole week after, and while I appreciated how much he wished he'd made the "right" call, I motioned up at the moon, and said "well...there's the moon, right where it's supposed to be...so I guess the world went right on like it was supposed to."   He laughed and understood the point I was trying to make...at least I hope he did.  

We get so wrapped up in the RIGHT NOW, and by "we" I mean me....

So many times, we take the issue that's right in front of us, and with the help of stress, anxiety, panic, Satan, maybe Congress, or the news media, we make that issue out to be the equivalent of the Titanic sinking or Pompeii being covered by volcanic ash or the 18th championship.  To be fair and honest, there are times when this is true.  Cancer sucks.  Death sucks.  Divorce sucks.  But most of the time,  the things that I stress over won't even matter in a few hours...let alone tomorrow, or next month, or in eternity.  

But OH MY GOD do I/we ever stress over them in the "right now!"  

When the stressors come, and they come every day, in every size, shape, color, religious affiliation, and political alignment, how in the world are we supposed to deal with them???  It seems like the media is a barrage of negativity.  I supposed I could turn the TV off, but then I wouldn't get to hear about Megan Kelly and Donald Trump.  Darn.  I guess I could shut down social media.  Laughable at best--I know myself well.  What are we to do....???

I believe it was that neurotic, brilliant, although CRS fish, Dory,  who said "just keep swimming."  God, I hate that fish...LOL. But I love that movie. And that message.  We have to just keep swimming.  Or as Eddie Vedder said it, "just breathe."  Just. Breathe.  Did it ever occur to you that you are not required to respond to every single stimulation that comes your way?? I mean, it's not in the Constitution of being human. But I certainly react to them as if I must react to them right this very minute.  I simply cannot stand to have a notification on my phone that I have an unread email or text.  I. Must. Get. To. That. Thing. This. Very. Minute.  My God, that is exhausting.  Just breathe, Johnny.

I'm overstimulated to the point that I can barely do this.  I go at a breakneck pace most of the time, and it's my own fault.  The demands I feel for giving an instant answer or a response are at a boiling point and I doubt I'm alone in this.

In the movie Lean On Me, the school principal Joe "Crazy Joe" Clark is jailed at one point, and a school board member is trying to convince him to apologize about something I can't recall right now, and he tells Joe "you have to!"  Joe's response is absolutely epic:  "I ain't gotta do anything but stay black, and die."  Priceless.  Truly priceless.  All the "things" on my to do list...they're just things I THINK I have to do, and sometimes I wonder if I don't make lists just so I can say I crossed things off my list?!?!  So, who's really neurotic? Dory? Or Johnny??

Y'all have a good Thanksgiving.  Thanks for reading.  God Bless!

  

"I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight."

Remember this?  I do.  Somehow.  The title of my blog is pretty accurate: I am random.  My brain is random...why in the world I bolted awake one night recently thinking about 1994 is beyond me but I did. 

When this catalog arrived at 308 Perry Street, I was still living at home.  I was taking the year off from school and I spent Monday-Thursday working at Food World from 8 a.m. til 2:00 p.m.  My brother Thomas was in basic training at Fort Benning, GA (E-2/58, Sand Hill), on his way to becoming an infantryman in the US Army.  My sister Jeremie was a junior in high school.  

At that time, I had absolutely no direction in life.  Zero.  I remember being jealous of my friends who were at Auburn while I was "stuck" at home.  In those days, I had only a vague, cloudy vision of what I wanted in life, and to be totally transparent with you, what I wanted was really short-sighted and dismal...I just wanted to get by.  There's a whole back story as to why that is and maybe, one day, I'll put that down on paper.  

In December, 1994, my mother had a heart attack.  I was camping on some land that John Ossenfort's family owned.  To be specific, I was sleeping beside a pond that is now surrounded by beautiful homes in a subdivision near the end of Lindsey Bridge Road.  With me were Josh and Ben Bates and John Ossenfort. Around 11 pm, we see headlights, and at that time, there was NOTHING in that area but trees.  Bill Ossenfort pulls up to the campsite, gets out of the car and says "Johnny, you need to go to the hospital.  Your sister called and she was crying and your mother is headed to the hospital in an ambulance."  Jeremie was 17 at the time.  I can still feel the guilt of having been away from the house when it happened.  Mom wound up in Dothan under the care of a great cardiologist, had a great recovery, and enjoys her grandchildren....

My wish that Christmas was for mom to recover.  Mom's wish was for Thomas's plane to land safely at Birmingham--his airline had 2 crashes in the weeks leading up to his flight.  Can't really say what Jeremie's wish was, but I suppose it was something along the lines of her mom getting well also.

Fast-forward 24 years....I haven't seen a JCP Wish Book in a long time but I still have wishes.  If I designed the Wish Book, it might look like this.

Page 33.  My dad would still be alive and kicking.  And he'd love to spend time watching his grandchildren grow up.  He'd probably still be in contact with Stephen Tuttle and Greg Wicke and we'd probably travel to see them. 

Page 99.  Autism would be something that isn't stigmatized.  You would be able to order a "no longer seeing posts on facebook about kids who are different being mistreated or shunned."  And it would have free delivery.

Page 115.  Divorce would never occur. 

Page 257.  Parents wouldn't age and their health wouldn't decline.  

Page 301.  On this page, I'd find that Grey Sharpe didn't die our junior year.  He'd be in the Army to this day, probably running the place.

Page 373.   A full page of second chances.

Page 405.  People would truly know their value.

Page 467.   All the answers to all the questions that my children have but I don’t seem to be able to answer.

Page 502.   The cure for cancer.

Page 503.   A government that actually works for solutions to our country‘s problems as opposed to hurling insults at each other across the aisle.

Page 599.   Forgiveness truly applied.

Page 607.  Hope where none seems possible.

Page 665.   An endless supply of amazing music.

Page 725.   That one present that I always hoped for but never got.

Page 773.   Knowing that my children will be successful parents and grandparents one day.

Page 811.   A  Bell  206 Jet Ranger and enough money to own/operate it. (Hey, I like helicopters! LOL)

 I hope you get what you wish for.

Nothing gold can stay.

--Robert Frost

Yesterday afternoon, the weather was perfect for riding a motorcycle, so that's what I spent some time doing.  As I headed down Stanley Avenue, I thought I'd swing by Andalusia Memorial Cemetery...crazy, I know, but sometimes I go there and talk to my dad.  Yes, I know he's not really there.  No, I don't care.  Anyway, when I got there, I found this.  

I was quite stunned to find that my dad's foot marker was pretty much grown over....quite stunned.  Before I go any further, let me saw I am in NO WAY about to bash whoever keeps up the cemetery.  Not at all!!  There are lots of markers out there!!  And I am also in NO WAY writing this out of self-pity or sadness or woe-is-me.  But the fact of the matter is that the condition in which I found my dad's marker was a perfect reminder....a reminder that LIFE IS FLEETING.  

My brother, who is a lot smarter than me--we're talking exponentially!--says the reason it seems like time passes faster as we age is that the older we get, the smaller percentage a portion of time becomes relative to how much time we've lived.  Sounds like some physics equation to me, but I know this:  it's midterm week at LBW and we just started the semester yesterday!  It's also homecoming week in Andalusia and the class of 1999 is having their 20th reunion....and they were seniors the first year I was the assistant band director at AHS.  That was just last year, right???  

As I rode off from the cemetery, I passed headstones of people I grew up knowing and I thought about my own existence.  (Doesn't everyone do this on Sunday afternoons??) I drove across Stanley and wound up on South Cotton Street, and then found myself on Carlton Street.  My best friend growing up, Kevin Harp, grew up in the house at 623 Carlton.  Lord, we rode bikes all over Andalusia.  Now the bike has a motor on it!  My mind was all over the place. Middle school.  Band.  Trying to pass chemistry.  Middle school crushes...mmm, she was pretty.  LOL.  Then, I thought about the friend I've known the longest--Mark Craig.  I drove past his parents' house on Snowden Drive.  605, I believe.  Mark's daddy died recently.  Too soon.  I remember him playing basketball with us in Mark's front yard.  If you played against Vernell Craig, you had better brought your "A" game!  You influenced me greatly, sir.  

The longer I rode, the more I thought about how fleeting is, and how I hate to see it wasted.  We can make more money.  We can make more people.  We can make more houses.  We can make more clothes.  We can make more cars.  We can make more everything....EXCEPT TIME.  

As I said earlier, this post isn't intended to be depressing.  Quite the opposite.  You and I have an opportunity!  A gift!!   It's called TODAY!!!  And until out time's up, we get a new TODAY every day.  Use it! Call a friend.  Cook.  Practice your instrument.  Study.  Plant a tree.  Read a book.  Do that task at work that you've/I've been putting off.  Watch the sunset.  Look at the stars.  Or just rest.  But use your time wisely...for it is going to pass no matter what you do.  

Have a good day.  Do something with it. 

"Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

--Jesus

There's an old tale of two monks who were walking down a road.  As they walked they came upon a woman attempting to cross a muddy puddle of water.  As monks, they were bound not only to never talk to, but also never to touch a woman.  As they approached the woman, the younger of the monks began to study the older monk to see what he would do.  The woman needed their help.  They had their vow.  A conundrum, for sure.  Without hesitance, the older monk picked the woman up and carried her over the puddle of water, to the complete dismay of the younger monk.  They then went on their way.  After some time, the younger monk could no longer hold his tongue.  He asked the older monk "why did you help that woman across the puddle?  You are well-aware of the vow we took when we entered the monastery!"  The older monk simply replied "I put that woman down over an hour ago....why are you still carrying her?"  

Burdens.  Boy they suck.  Sometimes, I see runners using ankle weights when they train so that they can run faster when they aren't wearing them.  Sure would be nice if we could just take off our burdens like that....

Burdens are heavy.  And they come in all varieties.  Physical. Emotional. Psychological.  Spiritual.  Familial.  Personal.  When we're younger we would probably think that the physical ones are the heaviest, but as we grow up, we quickly realize that we'd much rather have to carry actual weights around with us than we would have to carry around all the baggage that life entails...

Amazingly enough, some of the burdens that I carry are self-imposed.  I suspect some of yours are, too.  WHY??? What kind of self-hating, deprecating, tortuous fanatic would do this himself?  That's easy to answer.  It's called shame and guilt.  You probably know those two....

In Purcell's opera, Dido and Aeneas, Dido sings these words just before she kills herself: "when I am laid in earth, may my wrongs create no trouble in thy breast.  Remember me, but forget my fate."  The irony is that she had done nothing wrong.  Aeneas left her, under the spell of a witch.  Yet, she felt guilty.  I can only shake my head.  She took a burden to her grave that wasn't hers to bear.  Imagine the anguish.  

Maverick blamed himself for Goose's death, when it clearly wasn't his fault.  One of the best scenes in that movie shows him holding Goose's dogtags in his hand, consumed with guilt...all over something he wasn't responsible for... a perfect picture of what so many of us do to ourselves.  

Dido and Maverick were both in the same situation.  And it didn't really matter to their hearts whether they should be carrying the guilt or not....their hearts felt it, and the heart always overrides the brain.  Logic won't do here.  The heart is where all of life flows from.  

I think the heaviest burden of all to carry is being unwilling to forgive.  Forgiveness, according to a close friend of mine, is a supernatural occurrence.  The more I think about that, the more I am inclined to agree.  If I were to make a list of all the things that have been "done to me," it would really take an act of God to make me forgive all that.....but what about all that I have done to others??? Don't I want to be forgiven?? Sure I do.  And the wrong done to me is no worse than the wrong I've done to others.

And at the top of this mountain of being unforgiving is the unwillingness to forgive myself.  Good God what an impossible thing to do sometimes.  I think this is the case because in our minds, carrying around the resentment or anger that comes from not forgiving gives us some kind of psychological/spiritual/emotional crutch to lean on.  To put it another way, we like being the victim.  Ironically, forgiveness is not for the person who wronged us...it's for us.  Chances are pretty good that the offender doesn't even know of the offense, so, really, we are just destroying ourselves from the inside.  How tragic!

While having nails driven through his wrists and feet, and having had a spear rammed into his lateral obliques, and having been scourged, and having had a crown of thorns shoved down on his head, and even on top of this, having been rejected by the nation that produced his lineage, Jesus said, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."  I'm not sure I know of a more powerful, and awe-inspiring statement.  If I'm to be like Him, I must be like him.  I must think like Him.  I must act out what I know about Him.  The forgiveness that I extend directly relates to how much I can forgive myself--either positively or negatively.  I must decrease and He must increase.

Putting anything into practice requires patience and diligent effort.  Brother Lawrence said he often had to just simply say "God, I'm doing it again..."  Maybe over time, the habit of forgiveness will take root.  Maybe I can quit beating myself up for every little thing...maybe.  Just maybe.

God put that burden down long ago...why am I still carrying it???

Finding Strength in the Face of Adversity

"Yea, though I walk through the valley

of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil."

--Psalm 23

This morning, I read on Facebook that someone missed the America of September 12.  I was hooked immediately and had to read more.  The post spoke of what America was like on this day 17 years ago....the day AFTER the most tragic day this country has seen in my lifetime.  On 9/11 we were shocked to the core and our lives changed forever.  On 9/12 we didn't care if each other was black or white, male or female, young or old, Christian or Jewish or Buddhist....we were all AMERICANS, and we were united like I've never seen in my 45 years.  Flags flew everywhere.  Pride swelled.  There were parades.  George Bush launched a military offensive that was no doubt hell on earth for those on the receiving end.  And in the face of adversity, America found strength to go on.  

Hurricane Florence is a few hundred miles off the east coast.  It's probably going to destroy a lot of stuff.  Homes.  Cars.  Boats.  Lives.  We saw it here in Andalusia with Hurricane Opal in 1995.  We've seen it along the Gulf Coast in general with names like Katrina, Ivan, Frederick, and Camille.    I remember seeing the high water mark from Ivan once at Waterville water park in Gulf Shores and just marveling to think there could be water, that deep, as far as you could see in all directions!  But we rebuilt and America found the strength to go on.  

On Monday, I took my mother to a neurosurgeon.  She was potentially looking at a fourth surgery on her back/neck.  The surgeon was honest enough with her to tell her that while he could fix her problem, the "fix" might cause other problems.  When I talked to her last night, she said, referring to her pain management plan, "well, if surgery will just make it worse, I will just have to tough it out."  Mind. Blown.  Back pain SUCKS, and my mom will find strength to go on.  

A friend of mine was recently telling me about how he is dealing with some health issues and they sounded quite serious.  At one point he said "there is a difference between fact and truth.  The fact is that I'm in pain.  The truth is that God's still in control and that overrides everything."  I could only shake my head in awe of such trust.  

What is it that makes us carry on in the face of adversity?  

That's not rhetorical...I actually want to know.  I want to know so I can bottle it and store it in my pantry...and get it when needed and pour it on my cornflakes!  Hurricanes.  Attacks.  Pain.  Suffering.  They come and they come and they come...and we continue to get up and go after it again and again, and that amazes me!  

The human spirit is absolutely, completely amazing.  I don't understand it completely, but it has made mankind do some remarkable things.  Things like going to the moon.  Things like climbing Everest.  Things like winning WW2.  Things as "simple" as deciding to just endure the pain of an aging back...

Just exactly what is it that makes that ant think has move a rubber tree plant?!?  (You may not know that song...if not, just keep reading...lol)

I think there is, in all of us, an overwhelming sense of the eternal.  We know we are meant for more.  And I think that's what drives us...the idea that there is something worth the effort.  Beethoven believed he'd conquer his deafness, even if it didn't happen until Heaven.  That's stout!  I used to believe I'd never conquer KSW's chemistry class, but somehow made it out.  

In the most recent Rocky film, Rocky Balboa tells his son that what makes a great fighter is his willingness to continue to get up EVERY time life knocks him down.  I like to tell me son that what really matters isn't so much the screw-up, but what you do next after you screw up.  

It is our response to adversity that defines us.  

Among mortal authors, I think Anne Frank tops the charts.  She said "despite everything, I still think people are good at heart."  Really, Anne???  Really????? Even the Nazis who were trying to destroy your entire culture???? Yep.  Really.  She believed that.  There are no words.  Just awe.  

I hope you rise to meet your challenge.  Doesn't matter whether it's going off to war...or going off to copy tests in another building in a rainstorm...persevere! 

As Todd Beamer said just moments before becoming immortal..."Let's roll!"

"It's dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door.  You step onto the road, and

if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you'll be swept off to."

--Bilbo Baggins, The Fellowship of the Ring

Today, I am working on some music I will be playing on a concert with Four Seasons Brass next month.  Right in the middle of a phrase, it hit me how everything I am professionally, began with a selfless decision made years ago by mother, Betty Brewer.  

When I was 11 years old, Jeff Hudson came over to Church Street School and tested the entire fifth grade class to see if we might be interested in playing in the middle school band the next year.  Like most folks, I demonstrated some musical proficiency, and since I liked to do only things that I thought I could be successful at, I decided to do it! 

One summer day,  we went to AMS, to the library specifically, and I tried out several instruments.  I only remember the horn and the trumpet, and I remember wanting to play horn, but according to Jeff and the salesman from Arts, Sully Sylvester, I was best suited for trumpet.  We looked at several models, and settled on a lacquer-plated King 600--I thought it was gold...LOL.  

For reasons I can't explain, I remember that the retail price on that horn was $484...quite a bit of money in 1984....and still so today.   Mom would later buy Thomas a drum kit and Jeremie her own trumpet as well.  To this day, I am in awe of the financial sacrifices my mother made for us.  My family lived on the social security benefits that we all got after my dad died, and from my mom's part-time job.  We weren't poor, but we weren't raking it in, either.  And we NEVER did without.  Mom just made things happen.  Beach trips.  Disney trips.  Shiny, new musical instruments.  And I have reaped endless benefits and blessings because she put me and my brother and sister first.  

In high school, I made the all-state band.  I met Shelley Hatcher, Mark Nichols, and Mike Hammonds there.  Little did I know we'd all be at Troy State together in just a few years.  Mike and I played mellophone together in Southwind.  Mark and I used to backpack.  Shelley was my formal date once in college.  Crazy.

I earned a scholarship to play in the LBW Ensemble.  At that time, our scholarship was full tuition and books.  My first two years of college were FREE!  I made lots of great friendships with some fine musicians while I was here.  

I went on to Troy where I played on the world premier of at least six (that's all I can remember) pieces of music with the Symphony Band.  I met Ray Cramer and Arnald Gabriel.  I made more friends at Troy than I ever thought I would.  

I have been all over the US playing and teaching in the drum corps activity, which is life-changing.  

Even more significant than all the experiences I've been afforded is all the great MUSIC that I have been exposed to--music that has shaped my very existence.   

And all of these things--EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM--were made possible....by one decision.  By my mother's decision to buy me a trumpet.  I can only sit here and shake my head at the thought of it.  I wonder if mom knew what she was doing...if she knew how she was MAKING MY WORLD BETTER through her selflessness!!!!! Like Bilbo Baggins, I stepped out into a world that would be bigger and more amazing than I could ever imagine.  Music would take me to places, geographic and metaphoric, that would shape my life forever.  

As a dad, I need to remember that the decisions I make for my kids ripple through ETERNITY.  My kids' great-grandchildren will be affected by what I do.  Maybe, just maybe, I can be as selfless as my mother.  I owe her everything plus tax.  Thank you, mom.   When I play Barber's "Adagio" next month, it will be for you.  

Now to somehow try to actually play the trumpet....

What is your "why?"

--Colleen Kelly, June 2018

One day, back in June, one of my colleagues at Southwind, Colleen Kelly, asked the trumpet section one of the most important questions a person must address if they are going to do drum corps.  Drum corps is expensive.  It's grueling.  It's hot.  The rehearsal days begin at 7:30 a.m. and "lights out" is usually around 11:00 p.m.  The kids generally only sit down at breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  There are one million things other things the kids could be doing....and they choose this activity. Why???

And that was her question....what is your why?  

We made all 20 trumpets write down their why statement.  Some of them were anonymous.  Some were signed.  This one caught my attention.  

"I've always been told I'm not good enough; after a while I started to

believe it.  I'm here because I want to change that.  I want to feel good enough again."

This was written by a kid who was paying almost $3000 to be a part of Southwind; by a kid who had endured hours and hours and hours of practice; by a kid who had sacrificed one weekend a month to be here; who had sacrificed an entire summer to be here; who had been hand-picked by me to be here!  Who in the name of God had the impudence, the audacity, the unmitigated gall to ever have made that kid feel like he/she wasn't good enough??????????  It absolutely pisses me off.  (I am literally pounding the keys on my computer while I'm typing this!)......and I see it every day......

Tomorrow, LBW will start classes.  There will be someone in my classes who has been told "you won't make it." There will be someone who has been told "you are too old for that."  There will be someone who has been told "you aren't smart enough to do that."  There will be someone who has been told "you don't belong there."  There will be someone who has been told "you can't succeed."  

To each of those I say this: 

 "Those who say it can't be done should never interfere with those who are doing it."

The key is to remember why you are doing whatever it is.  It may be your kids.  It may be for your parents.  It may be for any number of reasons.  But when the going gets tough, remember why you started, and you'll keep going.   

I can't wait for tomorrow.  I can't wait to have a hand in someone walking across that stage next May or the May after. Heck, even if it takes 7 years like it took for me to graduate, YOU WILL MAKE IT.  And when you do, I'm going to just make up a picture in my mind of whoever it was that told you that you weren't good enough, and I'm gonna punch that image right in the face!

Years ago, the Ensemble covered Staind's song "Outside."  Dusty Morrow nailed it.  To this day, that's in my top 3 moments of our performances over the past 15 years.  The lights were incredible, thanks to Jerry Wishum, Dusty's vocals were on fire, and the band was stellar that year.  But....there's a definite sadness to that song, and I suspect EVERYONE has been the character in the song at one point or another...we've ALL felt like we were on the outside, looking in...like we don't belong...like whatever it is, it's not meant for us.  What a lie.  What a gigantic, straight-from-the-pit-of-Hell lie.

You know, as silly and cliche as the character was, Stuart Smalley was right...you are good enough, and you are smart enough.  God said so.  The end.  

Have a good day.  Brewer out.