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!!