"No amount of money ever bought a minute of time." 

--Tony Stark

Once upon a time, a colleague of mine told me that I would one day get to the point in life at which my time was more valuable to me than my money.  Well, I've been there for a while now....

Time.  That most valuable of commodities.  Most valuable because it is the ONE....the only one....that we can't make more of.  It seems like our entire lives center around our awareness of time, and specifically how little we actually have of it.  

Think about how many times we begin stores with "one time....".  I began typing this blog post with "once upon a time."  Ask someone how far it is to such and such a place, and they'll probably tell you how long it will take you to get there.The Bangles began Hazy Shade of Winter with the lyrics "Time, time, time."  And countless movies have been made about time, the best of them all being the Back to the Future films.  Ecclesiastes says there there is a time for every thing. I guess Solomon was as much into time as we are.  

What if we could make time stand still?  Would you?  Would you "pause" a moment so that you could look at it for as long as you wanted to?  Can you even imagine having that much power?  Where's that time stone???

I guess that's why people take photos.  I know for a fact it's why I do.  I whip out that phone, and snap that pic, and to help the preservation process, I post that Pulitzer-quality photo to Facebook! And boom!....saved forever!  Except...it's not.  Every time I look at an old photograph, I'm reminded of how much time has passed since I took it.  Pass the Wellbutrin...300mg please.  

Last night, I sat outside talking with Grant for a while about life.  He mentioned that one of his friends is leaving after graduation to learn to be a lineman for an power company.  That led to us talking about how he remembers vividly being in elementary school and how they'd get to go to the playground on Fridays in the 2nd grade.  And that led to his amazement as just how fast he got from 7 to 17.  Just wait, kid....you'll be 46 soon.  

As I sat there listening, I got the feeling that Grant might be as nostalgic as I am.  Pity....it can be debilitating.  LOL.  In all seriousness, though, looking back at the past is often fun, but it can also be very saddening, and not only because the past might be sad.  It's because we long for the past because we don't want to grow old.  We'd love nothing more than to render childhood eternal, to quote Charles Hazlewood...but we can't.  Our kids grow up.  Our parents age.  We age.  Life goes on.  

So we can't pause time.  But we can dang sure be more actively engaged in the moment in which we find ourselves...and this is what I want to do.  I think it means being more intentional with things like the dinner table.  Or the ride home.  And it means less screen time.  Starting with me.  It probably means planning ahead better so that there IS more time and so I don't feel so rushed.  And I also think it means being extremely conscious of just how fleeting time is.  Patch Adams comes to mind.  

One of the best things I'ver ever read was about tombstones.  They have a birth year and a death year and a hyphen between them.  It's what we do with the hyphen that matters.  What are you doing with your hyphen?  Hopefully not just taking pictures.....

“What In The World Are We Doing Here??” 

—The Colony House

I spent most the day building my son a bed.  It was his Christmas wish and I am obviously four months late. Better late than never, right??  I chose cypress because, well, I like cypress.  It's naturally rot-resistant, just in case Jack decides to move his bedroom outside....you never know.   After that I took a nap in the yard because the weather was so amazing. 

Yesterday, I spent the day in Pensacola with Ashlyn and one of her friends.  Ash just needed a fun day, and I was so happy she asked me to take her.  It was the first time I'd ever been in an Ulta store. I guess makeup can indeed cost as much as all the things I like to look at at Cycle Gear. Man, that Sedici Strada helmet with built-in Sena communication is only like $11 more than the eyeliner at Ulta!  

A long-time friend of mine's mother died recently and her funeral was today.  God willing, I'll play music for his wedding to another long-time friend of mine come next January.  

Another friend of mine is getting ready for his oldest son's wedding and his third son's high school graduation and shortly after that, his leaving for boot camp for the National Guard.  

Another friend informed me today that he bought his wife a new car...a Tesla, in fact.  I can't wait to see that thing.  

Another friend of mine, Garrett Pass,  was cleaning out stuff today and found this pic.  

Garrett texted the pic to me and Robert McGhee and then to Mark Craig, and then I sent it to Alphonso Simpson and Jason Walker.  I don't have cell numbers for the others.  How amazingly random that just as I started walking this evening, I got a photo taken 33 years ago in my inbox.  In case anyone is wondering... front row, L to R:  Robert McGhee, Jason Walker, Donnie Weaver, Doyce Colvin.  Back row:  Alphonso Simpson, Mark Craig, me, Garrett Pass, Demond Mott, and Clint Veasey.

At some point today, as I lay in the grass looking up at the sun, the thought crossed my mind:  "what in the world am I doing here??"  Seriously.  How is it that I am 46, with three kids, 4 years from retirement, building my son a bed, on the day before Easter???  Of all that could have happened in my life, this is what happened.  And no, I'm not complaining!  I'm just fascinated by life, and by how we never really know what is coming down the pipe on a given day.  I built a bed.  Someone buried a mom.  Someone no doubt spent much time in thought about his sons' futures.  On any other day, the roles we three played could be switched out.  Is is random?  Is it like roulette? Is God's providence at work?  Do we have free will?  Am I here randomly? Or am I the product of every choice I've ever made??

Russell Crowe said in some movie that "what we do echoes in eternity."  Just....good God.  Let that simmer a bit....

#'s 42, 24, and 34 in that pic above....their dads all took up a lot of time with me when I was a kid.  Boyd Pass and Vernell Craig coached me.  Philip Mott fixed my bike more times than I can count.  I don't know if they ever thought about the effect they were having on me and many others, but their choices will echo in eternity, even if by no other means, through me.  

Dave Matthews said it this way.  "Lying in the park on a beautiful day, sunshine in the grass, and the children play;  sirens pass, a fire engine red, someone's house is burning down on day like this."

John Bradford, upon seeing someone being led to execution out his cell window, said it this way:  "there, but for the grace of God, goes John Bradford.  

I could further illustrate the point, but it's clear enough: on any given day, it could be our day to lie in the grass...or deal with tragedy.  It could be our day to relive basketball 33 years in the past...or attend a funeral.  And because I never know which day it will be, I must always be thankful for the good days, and live in the good moment when it comes.  And I must always try my best to remember God in the tough moments.  He makes it rain on the just and the unjust.  

Yes, I believe I am the result of my choices.  But, I'm also the result of choices made by others, namely Christ.  Without Him, it wouldn't matter what I did today.  Or 33 years ago when I attempted to be a basketball player....I mean, look at those socks!  His choice--which we will celebrate tomorrow as Christians--gives meaning to all the meaninglessness.  It gives focus to the blurred.  It gives prominence to the obscure.  It gives hope to the hopeless.  And it echoes in eternity.  

Have a great Easter, folks.  

"I've been looking so long at these pictures of you that I almost believe that they're real."

--Robert Smith, of The Cure

This morning, I was listening to Pandora and "Pictures of You" by The Cure came on.  As is almost always the case, the music took me somewhere in my soul, somewhere far removed from the normalcy that is brushing teeth and shaving and dressing for work.  And it is there I remain, at least mentally.  

A blog is usually about words.  But today, I offer pictures only....

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but...which words???  

"You still wanna be principal trumpet tomorrow?? 

Don't mess that solo up again."

--Ralph Ford, late 1996, to me, in his office.

The day that my trumpet teacher took me in his office, looked over his glasses that rested near the tip of his nose, and said, as bluntly as possible--while yet smiling!!--those words to me, is still etched in my memory.  And to this day, I am ever grateful that he was brutally honest with me that it be like that sometimes.

22 years ago this very night, I was on stage in Crosby Theatre rehearsing for a concert that the Symphony Band would go on to play the next night at Troy's annual Southeastern United States Concert Band Clinic, an event created years ago by Dr. John M. Long.  The SEUS Clinic, as it is affectionately known, is a big deal at Troy.  It's a huge recruitment event featuring honor bands, and guest bands, and bands, and band directors doing band things with bands about band with some band on the side, with band salad.  Band.

And it was THE event for the Symphony Band to pull out all the stops and demonstrate its prowess.  For 1997, Dr. Long chose to do this with Ottorino Respighi's masterpiece, The Pines of Rome.  Just typing those words makes me shudder a bit.  If you played it, or attempted to play it, or know anything about it, you know why.  It's hard. Damn hard.  Stupid hard.  There are places in it where Respighi obviously found another composer and said "hey, do you think the trumpets can play this many sharp notes, in 16th note triplets, above the staff?  And that composer said, "heck no, man, are you nuts?!" And the Respighi said "you're not the boss of me!!" and wrote it any way.....And that's just the first 20 seconds.  

The piece is four "Roman images," if you will, of the pine trees around Rome:  those near the Villa Borghese, those near a catacomb, those near a Janiculum, and those near the Appian Way.  Musicologists would call this piece a tone-poem.  Musicians salivate over getting to play it.  If played well, it's a feast for the ears.  If played poorly, well, yeah don't.  

I remember the very first time I found Pines in our symphony band music folders.  I was like "Really???? We're really doing this???"  I geeked out a little [read: "still to this day."]   We read through the first portion, and I already knew a little about it, having heard Star of Indiana do this piece five years before....on...a...football field. Still shaking my head about that....

The Pines near Villa Borghese is an absolute frenzy of notes.  There are more notes in there than there is sand on a beach!  Just hang on for dear life!  

The Pines near a Janiculum is pure, calm, tranquil...very beautiful.  

The Pines of the Appian Way paints a picture of Roman legions returning home from battle, relentless as they near the Eternal City.

But it's the second scene, Pines near a Catacomb, that became my nemesis, nay, my IDENTITY, for the next several weeks as we prepared the work for public performance.   As you know, catacombs are underground burial locations for first century Christians.  I knew this, so I had a vague understanding of the concept of the music.  Seems like I still remember some of the other trumpet players looking over at me and saying things like "hey...good luck." Oblivious, I was like "ok...thanks..."  I had no idea that I was about to be required to play one of the most difficult trumpet solos in all of the orchestral literature.  I was about to learn what pressure was all about.  What being a principal trumpet player was all about.  What having 2000 eyes and ears glued on you was all about.  

In truth, I was really a two-dimensional trumpet player in college:  I could sight-read pretty well, and I had some technique.  But my lyrical playing?  No.  My tone quality?? I was WAY behind Shelley Hatcher on tone quality. Wasn't everyone???  And that quarter--we weren't on semesters yet--taught me how to play lyrically.  Or, it tried. LOL.  I slaved over that solo more than I ever have over anything.  I DIDN'T WANT TO SUCK.  At one point, I had to just soar up to A above the staff, in a slur, effortlessly.  That "A" is one of the worst notes to play beautifully.  Thank you, Respighi, for writing it FOUR times in that solo.  Incidentally, several years later, when I played the solo again for an orchestral audition, it was still just as challenging to play well.  

Day in and day out, I struggled with making it sound GREAT.  Some days, it was pretty, some days it was disaster.  And one day, I just botched it, and Ralph Ford took me into his office and said to me the words as the top of this blog post.  

In the end, we played the piece to a packed theatre on a cold Friday night in February, 1997.  The concert was a great success.  I played that concert on a Benge 90B trumpet that I still have to this day.  I don't play it, but I have it.  That horn actually has a very interesting story behind it.  Thank you to those who are responsible for me having it.

I hate to admit this, but there are days on which I actually wonder "was I any good back then?" And I'll listen to that CD for validation.  Why???? Just. Why.  That's really pretty crazy...but I do wonder.  Was I any good at all?  That was a time in my life when I got TOO MUCH validity and identify from my musical abilities.  I hope I'm not quite so much that way today....maybe I am....

...............................................

Tomorrow night, the Troy University Symphony Band will perform Pines of Rome at the 2019 SEUS Clinic.  The trumpet section as of late at Troy has been absolutely outstanding in every way.  I contacted the principal trumpet, Landon Grigsby to ask him if he was playing the Catacombs solo. He said he passed it off to another.  Wow.  Humility right there.  Landon is a collegiate trumpet superstar, and I have no doubt that the one he passed it off to, Ben Huston, is equally monstrous.  I am looking forward to hearing the concert so much that I can hardly stand it.  

When I saw the Facebook post that the Symphony Band was playing Pines, it was 1997 all over again. Memories galore.   I talked to two dear friends, Shelley Hatcher and Doug Brasell, tonight.  They were both in that trumpet section, as were Dave Fortuna, Sena Thibadoux Bird, Rocky Wright, Jeremy Barber, Paul Reddish, and Scott Trull.  I hope you all know how much I respect each of you, and how much you shaped me.  I hope you know how much I miss sitting in that old band room with you guys playing music.  And Ralph, I hope you know how much I appreciate that kick in the pants I needed to get me over the hump!  

................................................

I don't really know how it is that some circles, and lines, and dashes, and flags, and dots, and beams on a piece of manuscript paper can so define a person.  But music has defined me in so many ways, and many of them, quite frankly, aren't healthy.  It's just music...right??  

To the 2019 Troy University Symphony Band, I can't wait to hear you lay waste to everyone within earshot of Crosby Theatre tomorrow night.  And Dr. Walker, when y'all get to Appian Way, I want to feel a Roman legion marching right up through the middle of Troy, Alabama.  It's time to put the hay in the barn!  

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!!