Three gifts, one wise-guy.

So I’ve decided to do something a little different.  Not overlooking my kids or those closest to me, but honestly, I just absolutely hate Christmas.  I hate what we’ve made it into, and I hate that I feel very little joy around it.  Sure, it’s the birthday of ‘Christ our King’, ‘Jesus Christ’, ‘the Savior’, all those titles.  But what if it doesn’t resonate with you?  And it doesn’t have to resonate for you to have faith.  It really isn’t about that. “It’s a trap!”  Like Colonel Akbar calling out to those going into the second death star.  December becomes our trap.  And I know that many are festive and jolly, and I am thankful that those people exist.  They counter for me and my Scrooge, Grinch, “what the hell are we doing this?” beliefs.  But you don’t have to be anything other than yourself.  And I know that I’M NOT ALONE IN THIS! 

The Story talks about a boy being born, and it talks about simple.  It doesn’t talk about gifts until later in the story when three Wisemen from come from afar (‘a fire’ if you’re from the south) to worship.  Well I don’t know that I even do that well, the worshiping, because my faith is entrenched so much in the spirit and prayers echoed in the mountains that sometimes it’s hard to join in our modern-day corporate worship.  Really hard.  But I woke up this morning, still fighting bronchitis, still a little down, trying to figure out how in the hell I can make a difference.

It’s simple, in the bigger scope of the world it’s sometimes hard to see that we’re making a difference, but in my neighborhood, the places that I live in, shop in, I have the ability to do much more.  So Walmart was my first stop.  I got the two or three items that I needed, and I paced up and down the checkout aisles until I found someone I thought was the right person.  A mother with a teenage daughter and a little 3 1/2 year-old boy.  I have one of those.  I struck up a short conversation about her son, said merry Christmas, and then before she could finish unloading her cart, I said “Ma’am can I do something for you. Can I buy your groceries?”

She gave me a hug, she teared up and allowed me to buy them.  Hugging me again before we parted ways.  I felt a little something.  What I really want is to feel something about the stupid fucking holiday.

I got back in my truck and cried.  My kids really don’t need excess.  They’re going to have a good Christmas no matter what.  I hate this holiday, but maybe I can do something a little better than just buying more stuff to break and throw away down the road.

My second stop was at one of the local Grocery stores.  Similar situation.  It’s incredibly heartwarming to see the look on a person’s face when they realize you’re for real.  I simply paid for their groceries, walked out and got in my truck.  No expectations, just trying to do a good deed.  

I’m on stop number three.  Kroger #2.  Hope I can show a little more compassion and Christmas spirit, and might actually feel something “Grinch-like” in the process (remember his heart grew three sizes that day!”)


Merry Christmas!

Like Tommy Boy!

Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth.  I did not come to bring peace, but a sword.
Matthew 10:34

A sword or possibly a Callahan Brake Pad?!

Have you seen the movie?  Please say yes.  It’s one of those stupidly funny SNL spinoffs that defined a generation of comedy that we may never have again.  And it also is a pretty good life lesson, if you can get through the slapstick, fat guy in a little coat, Rob Lowe destroying humor.

God I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but I want to be a little more like Tommy.

In April of this year I made a decision to live the most authentic life I could live.  Not by anyone else’s standards, but by the truth that I believe inside me.

And...

I failed.

I cracked and lost.  Realized that it wasn’t as simple as putting words on a page and believing that those plans will happen.  That in my moxie I left out the ‘how'.  I forgot reality for just a moment, a couple of months actually and found myself struggling much like before.  The plan was grand and glorious, but also misconceived and flawed.  Full of holes.  I had let emotion and the need to prove I was more than a traveling tuba salesman drive my attempted future.

So yes, I have failed.

If I wanted to make everything rosy and palatable.  Wrapped up like the bows on so many gifts under trees at this time of year, I could write this in a very different way.  I’m sure I could convince myself and some of you reading (all 4 of you) that this was a minor setback.  A bump in the road.

It’s not.  I am back to beyond step one.  First and 45 in football vernacular.

Instead of blowing smoke up your ass, I have to be real.  Authentic means that it’s sometimes, maybe often times messy (remember the verse at the top - sword over peace).  One thing that I realize, I am so thankful for the faith that I have.  But even that gets whitewashed so many times.  I see many trying to make it seem as if faith gives us privilege, or we’re to “give it to God” and everything will be alright.  Well guess what?  I am alright.  I’m not defeated, just down.  And even if I don’t make it to where I hoped I would go, accomplish all that I hoped to, I know that my beliefs are there.  And they are Master Yoda strong, not fickle like Luke’s so often were.

But what does all this mean?

It means tomorrow I get up.  I face the tasks at hand.  This week I have several hard conversations that need to be had.  I’ve got some plans to reconsider, and I’ve got to work. I always work.  I’m not sure the outcome, but I am going to be real.  Be authentic to me.

I’m not sure exactly where all this is going to lead, and I’m not scared in that.  I mean I don’t want to end up living in a “van down by the river”, but I’ll take where I’m led.

I went hiking for the first time in almost a month this last Thursday. Then again on Saturday.  I need that.  I hear the spirit there.  My mind clears, and the aches I feel are not the sickness that seems to continue to grip me, but aches of sore muscles that have been yearning to be out there. It hurt on the uphills.  Just like it hurts right now to know that I’ve got to go back up.  But I can’t stay where I’m at.

So if you have the ability, take the place you’re in - Find your faith.  Find solace in you.  Who you were made to be.  And don’t rest in the complacency of our times.  We were made for so much more than streaming movies and video games, waiting on amazon packages and living lackluster lives.

And when you fail.  When life really sucks.  Just remember that those times are just seasons. Valleys on the way to trails moving through the mountains.

Do I regret the decision to be more authentic?  No.  It was the first taste of truth and 'belief in me' that I’ve had in such a long time. And I’d rather be right than doing things for society’s “right reasons”.

So, I’ve failed.  Now I just have to get up.

Click to Watch Tommy Boy Chicken Wing Scene

"Hallelujah! Holy sh-t! Where's the Tylenol?"

“Oh, the silent majesty of a winter’s morn. The clean, cool chill of the holiday air. An asshole in his bathrobe, emptying a chemical toilet into my sewer.”

I feel dumped on.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 
I've been up all night.  

Let me preface what I'm going to write below with this.  I do not want anyone's pity.  I do not want to make what I am about to share a public spectacle.  What I do ask is for ALL of you, whether you believe in anything beyond this world or not, to PRAY.  Pray for the dark, hardened, stench of rot that might have once held a feeling part inside her.  Pray for her fucking soul, if there be anything resembling the burnt-out husk of one inside her.

I'm aching tonight.  Terribly.  I have realized over the last couple of months that the journey I am walking through at the moment is a parallel of the one I went through with Cade and Cambrey's mom soon after we were divorced.  And it is so F*C&ing eerie!!!  Yet 10,000 times worse than when they were moved away.  And I am mostly to blame.  I can blame her emotional sway that took me almost two years to beak.  I can blame my lawyer.  But in the end I am the one who let this happen without a battle-royal.  A twenty man, last man standing fight that should have at least given me a fighting chance against the gorgon.  

I sit and watch, trying to communicate, wanting to touch.  Wanting to hold him when he's upset, wanting so much to help him understand.  And what I'm getting is a game.  A game not being played by my three year old, but a game of control being played by an adult who should understand the hurts that he doesn't understand.  The loss of time and proximity that he can't begin to comprehend.  His spirit recognizes what she cannot.  The fracture and how it is affecting the core of our son's heart.  Her tepid attempts to console him are a laugh at me through the screen.  She knows she owns the rights to control.  Because how can you question a three year old about such deep concerns?  I've had attorneys say that the emotional isn't questioned in the courts, and I've seen it firsthand. 

If only there was a child psychologist in his life...... wait....... well you all know that answer.

After a week or so of seeing him pull back from our time talking, and realize I'm not expecting more than a few minutes at best with him on the screen each day, I felt I had to do something.  It will be over a month until I see him if I didn't ask.  And it shouldn't be an ask at all.  Again, the control game.

I texted her and asked to talk briefly.  I wanted to surprise him, and selfishly get to see his face and hug him tight.  I told her I wanted to come up and visit for a day.  And yes, I assured her I would pay for the trip - over $500 just for the flight - just to see him for a day, an afternoon.  She said yes.  But then my gut started to feel something.

I texted her just a few minutes after I booked the plane ticket.  Feeling I needed to get it in writing.  

And I got it.  What my gut was screaming at me.  "It wasn't a convenient time."  "It was too much."  Hell, I had just asked to see him for a few hours.  He wouldn't care if they were traveling the next day.  He might actually be good after spending just a little time with dad.  Might even give her time to pack.  Might be good for her son.

She is a snake.  A bitter person who shows such a pretty, put-together exterior.  But her actions show.  She doesn't really care for the "tribe"* she teared up and described us needing to be.  She only cares about control.  And she has it... for now.

I have to fight.  I am white hot and so angry that I haven't been able to sleep, hardly able to breathe.  I want my son to be happy and healthy, but the realization of castration as a father is going to force me to grow a new pair and make some waves.

So, in the words of Clarke Griswold...

"Hey! If any of you are looking for any last-minute gift ideas for me, I have one. I'd like Frank Shirley, my boss, right here tonight. I want him brought from his happy holiday slumber over there on Melody Lane with all the other rich people and I want him brought right here, with a big ribbon on his head, and I want to look him straight in the eye and I want to tell him what a cheap, lying, no-good, rotten, four-flushing, low-life, snake-licking, dirt-eating, inbred, overstuffed, ignorant, blood-sucking, dog-kissing, brainless, dickless, hopeless, heartless, fat-ass, bug-eyed, stiff-legged, spotty-lipped, worm-headed sack of monkey shit he is! Hallelujah! Holy shit! Where's the Tylenol?"

Amen.


*below is the article she professed such a yearning for when we were working out our visitation

Our Tribe - Co-Parenting

Come and Drink

When my spirit is thirsty
Parched from the days of endless strife
Look around for a little wine, some water
Anything that might satisfy

See, I’m still out here in the desert
In a world full of restless souls
All the sadness, lives in turmoil
Dried up my senses – can’t taste no more.

Then you say “come and drink”
I say “why, what for?”
You say “I’m all you need”
I say “I’ve heard this all before”

I fill my cup with so many distractions
Lead me astray, yet I deceive
Myself with haughty notions
Of what my life could really be

I’m still not willing to surrender
To you, a foreign deity
Without sitting down at the table
I’ll taste your cup, but don’t expect me

To turn from skeptic to believer
Without a moment between you and me
When I can lay it all before you,
The hurts I still can’t seem to let go of –
Then maybe I’ll have that drink.

You say “I am the living water”
I say “I’ve heard it all before”
You say “I’ll be here when you’re ready”
Maybe one day, hopefully
I’ll fall down to my knees, and say
“I need you Lord”

11/12/18 
clc

Just Show Up!

Shut Up!

I don’t need to hear you.  I need to see you.

Our words are full of our own desires and twists to get what we want.  Subconsciously or consciously.  They are used to debate, to cajole, to turn other’s opinions.  Guilt.  Sternness.  Overbearing.  Sweet.  Even sometimes the tender and kind words get mixed with the vitriol of seeking our influence over another.

How many times have I said things that I didn’t mean, or worse, things that I could never follow through on.  I am working on this.  If I say I’m going to do something, there’s stuff, life that often creeps in and rearranges my schedule.  My priorities have often swayed like the wind.  I hate it.  

Words are fickle, like a flaccid member.  And whether you are a politician, religious leader, father, boss, mentor, they are often the first line of a subtle abuse that most of us have practiced or have had transgressed on us.  They hurt, sting and unlike the rhyme that we were taught as children…. “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me”, they do hurt.  They damage.  They get into our thinking, especially if you don’t know yourself well enough, don’t have the capacity to set up appropriate guards to keep words from really eating you from the inside out.

But this isn’t about words.  It’s about something much more important to me as of late.  Showing Up.

I look back on the hardest times, the ones that much of this blog is written around, and see a trend.  Alone.  Dark.  Hard.  Even when certain people were in my life, there wasn’t a person who understood.  And let me be the first to admit that I’m really damn good at isolating when I’m sulking, hurting, angry at God, bitter…

I’m trying to break that trend.  When little man was taken in January, I reached out immediately to the two friends that were closest.  Adam and Nate, along with their wives Jessica and Maegen, dropped everything to be there that day, and in subsequent days after.  But that was a first.  When the kid’s mom died, I tried to do everything myself.  I wanted the weight, the burden, not sure if it was out of guilt or an overstimulated need to be in charge.  When I ran hardest and deepest from my faith, I did it alone, often finding myself in harder spots because I didn’t make a phone call, or just show up at a friends house.  

So here’s the deal.  If you show up for me, your’e special.  You’re loved a little more by this jaded heart and I see that I matter to you.  I wish I did this better for my friends.  I’m pretty rotten at times.  I say things I want to do (with good intentions), then end up having to bail.  But those of you who have sacrificed your time to be around me, like Adam giving his time to go on a bike ride the other night, because I just needed to expend some stress and breathe, you are beautiful people.

And then there are the times when a group of people shocks you.  They all just come through the door.  All of them.  The ones you needed to be there:

Nate
Maegen
Adam
Jessica
Diana
Amanda
Dabbs (DCS Baby!)
Sarah

I cried on the way to get my gear for the performance.  Tears of disbelief turned into reality.  I had invited a lot of people to hear me try to get back into this singer/songwriter thing I’ve always toyed with, but hadn’t done in over ten years.  But this group, well they’re special.  And every lie I’ve always believed about people not caring or being willing to show up just got blown out of the water.  I still have to work on me returning the favor, but those people have in many ways over the last year given me a better sense of hope, trust (the biggest one) and sense of family.

Thank you for just showing up!

Where are you?

Where are you God?
I know you speak through the roaring wind.
But what about when I’m struggling,
and just need a good friend?

I see the mighty rivers, 
cutting pathways to the seas.
Know the power that you give them,
but right now, what about me?

I’ve seen the world from 15,000 feet
(Know all creation still bows beneath)
But do you hear me amidst the crowded city streets

I don’t doubt your presence
Nor do I question all you are
But in those moments when I struggle, 
God you feel so very far

And though I’ve often questioned
why a king would come and walk on dusty feet.
I still reach for you first 
when I don’t have the strength

Just show me that you 
haven’t forgotten my heart
Because the only reason I’ve made it this far
Is ‘cause I know who you are.

And as I pull the covers round me
Hide away deep in my own cocoon
Give me a sigh, a breath,
let me remember that you’ll be here... very soon.

Maybe I’ll wake up
As a butterfly springs to life
Out of the ashes
Leaving that pain behind

And in this world, as so many struggle
Can you give us a little more of your peace?
Let us take each other’s hand
And believe.

10/30/18
clc

~ for a friend, and also for the many who are searching for some meaning, amidst the turmoil we often find.

Windows down

60 degrees.  Brisk first breaths of Autumn.  Windows down.  Music turned up, a mix of David Bowie, Chris Stapleton, O.A.R. and Indigo Girls.  The city streets are alive, waiting to be conquered.

It’s that freedom that washes through the open cab of my 2001 Chevy Silverado.  And my spirit flies just as if soaring, similar to that feeling of free fall I experienced skydiving earlier this year.

Life will come back.  It’s a temporary pause.  But in those moments of soaring, zipping down North Avenue, Ponce, Peachtree Street, it’s time to just let my mind wander along the turns in the roads.  No immediate destination, but an end goal in mind.  Home, a feeling, a bizarre mix of recently healed loss and newfound safety.  Until arriving there it’s time to take a few moments for me.  To just be.

Sometimes I need that time alone with no thoughts as much as time focused on planning each day out.  Walking away for just a few moments to recenter.  Or better, driving out the stress of the day, through the lyrics of Wade Bowen’s ‘West Texas Rain’.

“I have been restless
I have been reckless
I’ve been a strain on my mom’s heart
I’ve been a drunk
I’ve been a dreamer
Pulling the strings on this old guitar

I’ve found a few answers
I’ve still got questions
Kept it together and fallen apart

I got secrets and stories
Old shoebox memories
And choices that I’d like to change
Teardrops and laughter
And me chasing after
Years that go as quick as they came
Like a west Texas rain
Like a west Texas rain

Well I’ve been a lover
I’ve been a father
I’ve been a brother
And I’ve been a son
Well I’ve been a preacher
I’ve been a sinner
If you can name it,
I’ve probably been one

I’m strong for the struggle
Constantly reaching,
Reaching for something that I’ve never down

And I got secrets and stories
Old shoebox memories
Choices that I’d like to change
I got teardrops and laughter
And me chasing after
Years that go as quick as they came
Like a west Texas rain
Like a west Texas rain

So close your eyes and hold on
We’re here and we’re gone
It goes as quick as it came
Just like a west Texas rain
Just like a west Texas rain
Just like a west Texas rain
Just like a west Texas rain”


Peace,
Chad

the truest love

He pushed her wheelchair across the parking deck towards the elevator.  She was in pain, with every little bump across the concrete sending a shudder through her wilting body.  It was difficult to mistake the tear that rested at the corner of his eye.  But he wouldn’t breakdown in front of her.  Not here.  He was there to do what she had done her entire life.  Steady things.  He was the voice, the preacher, the loud son of Mableton, Georgia.  She was the rock.  Quiet and reserved.  The anchor that allowed him to be what he was.  A scoundrel turned pastor.  A man of faith that was now having his own faith tested.

It came quick and painful.  A misdiagnosis, time wasted as her body succumbed.  It was Cancer.  And in 1986 the factors just didn’t add positive.  But even as the final result was painted rather clear, the path to her passing has only in recent years come into focus for me.

In 2007 I said goodbye to him.  He was the man I loved more than anyone in the universe.  More than I could even show on that day.  But in all this time I’ve acknowledged him, I’ve often kept her a mystery.  Not willing to tell this tale.  But it is a beautiful glimpse at their real story.  The truest love I have ever seen.

I never understood exactly what was going on as we went downtown.  That summer I stayed with them.  1986.  It was the summer before high school for me.  And my grandfather, through my parents, offered to pay me to stay with them and help around the house, do some chores.  To help her.  I gladly came.  I thought of it as freedom, and those of you who know my story might realize why that time away from home was precious and life sustaining.  But what I never realized was that I would be watching her die.

The trips to the hospital were a necessity.  Trying to save her life.  My grandfather was always there.  Always pushing the wheelchair.  He was somber in those trips.  Unlike the man I knew.  I watched him help her out of the Cadillac, her Cadillac.  That was something that he always tried to provide for her.  One material item that in some ways brought both of them out of the poor area where they met and grew up.  She pinched every penny and fed their young family through so many missionary churches and ministry jobs, always having just enough.  He never got her the convertible Mercedes that she wanted, but they always had one nice car.  And then his cars to ‘tinker’ on that often looked like an auto shop on their lawn.

He met her when she was still a child, though in many ways she was always older than everyone else around.  She was 14.  He was much older.  And they wed without either of their parents knowing.  Living apart but married.  She brought stability and calm.  He was the wild young man who could be heard coming from miles away, whether by car or on foot.  And he loved her.  I don’t think anyone who ever met them would have doubted that.  I don’t know as much of the story before my mom and her siblings came along, but as long as I could remember, they were always together.

It’s a story that Nicholas Sparks could only hope to create.  Two young lovers.  Faith.  Hope for something better.  As they traveled the countryside, she went with him, beside him, taking care of the areas that were her stronghold.  He would teach, talk to the community, and she would be working just as diligently beside him, or raising the three, then four kids that they conceived.  It wasn’t glamorous, but whoever said that true love was.  It’s not about Hollywood.  Lights, cameras, leading men and lovely ladies.  Love is real.  It’s not fickle or faint of heart.

As I saw her body laid to rest, those who knew them showed how true their devotion was.  All the years they had spent together in honest relationship sparked multiple connections throughout western Georgia.  I have never seen so many flowers and cards, people showing up from states away to honor her life.  It was a blur, but I realized after we walked out of the funeral home in Carrollton that I would never get to hear her get on to me, pop my butt or pinch my ear again.  And I wept.

Four years later I decided to go to West Georgia College.  Again, my grandfather offered for me to stay with him.  This time as his roommate/grandson.  It was a time for me to grow and get some independence and also a time to get to know him more.  Of the many lessons that he shared with me, often while sitting downstairs in his old recliner watching the Braves on channel 17 (TBS), was that he had loved.  Loved deeply and passionately.  He had his true love.  She came, and he watched her go.  And he did not regret any of it, not even the pain.  Because what is life without pain, joy, hurt, laughter, love.

He never remarried.  And I often thought he missed opportunity on another love, just like most of my family.  But he loved, and she loved him.  Loved deep and true.  What other human could hope to replace that?

Have you ever felt that?  

It was shortly after her passing that I got lost in the world of B-rate movies (John Cusack films and others like them).  Romantic Comedies that would always end with the loveable loser finally getting the girl.  Maybe not the girl he thought, but the right girl.  I’ve spent most of my life wanting the fiction.  And the one love I have had turned out to be far from reality.  You can’t hope for the fiction to become real.  That’s why it entertains us so, because it takes us into something that is Fantasy.  

But what I have seen, and now clearly understand is the reality of a simple country preacher, pushing his wife across the cement.  Carrying her to her death with humility, fear, heartache and the truest love.

to settle.

There is a fire that burns within each of us.  It first comes out as oxygen touches our throats and the roar of breath escapes our lungs.  At that moment there is nothing except the need to live, to scream, to never let anything hinder us.  There was silence and fluid and the cacophony of rhythm and sound that enveloped us, and we just wanted out.  To find the light we could barely imagine, and to suck on the marrow of what we knew had to come.  LIFE>!

We’re born to rise.  To walk.  To taste the first suckle of mother’s milk.  We crawl, then wobble, walk, then dance!  Never does it cross a baby’s mind that there is any less than the next hurdle.  I sat and watched all three of mine take those first steps.  I’ve seen two of them grow to near adulthood.  One still searching for the right direction and the other knowing where she wants to go, but not quite sure of the right path and how to get there.  I’ve seen the independent mind of my youngest as he questions everything.  “Why does this work?  What does that do?”

We were designed, yes, I said designed to create, to write, draw, sing, compute, add, subtract, multiply (in many ways!).  Even in the worst of circumstance, we can find light, hope, hum a tune, laughter.  We build skyscrapers and fly airplanes.  We have the ability to open hearts and motivate minds.  We can dream.

But what about the first time we give our dreams away?  What about when we take the easier path, or just decide to opt out of choosing, to sit and be complacent in our decisions.  When we settle.

I have been a fighter my entire life.  I have stood, even when those around me don’t realize it, and faced every foe that has attacked me from the age of 7 on.  But I’ve also settled for mediocracy instead of thriving.  I’ve licked my wounds from those battles while being less than what I was designed to be.  It’s easy to blame the past for not moving into the future, but to not even embrace the present?  Come on Chad, you’re better than that!!

I will not settle.

I’ve seen a good friend go back to the life she swore she’d never chose just for a comfortable arm around her neck and a strong form to lean on.

My last relationship was marred with the shadows of a former life.  Choosing a dead man over the living.  Stuck. 

Another friend is finding her way beyond fear and hurt towards a new footing on the unsettled ground of being alone.  It’s a hard path, but one that means leaving the codependency of the past and finding a new resolve in each day’s present.

I’ve met many people over the last year or so.  Many that I thought highly of.  Some with great potential. But there has always been some trait or habit, a way that we didn’t mesh, a belief, distance, something that made it a no.  And though there were a couple who absolutely made me smile, happy for a moment, thinking beyond just a date or two…I’m not willing to settle for less than spectacular.  For me.

Tonight, I sat for the second time with someone who has not only taken my breath, but also opened my eyes a little further to the truth.  I don’t have to settle.  There is a path and I am on it, with purpose and direction.  Will we walk far down this road?  I have no clue.  Though hopeful.  But beyond her, there is the truth that I am not done.  The obstacles and hurdles I’ve faced, as well as the ones to come are part of this journey.

I will not settle.

Like the newborn who sucks at the air and cries at the top of their lungs to be heard, to be seen, to be acknowledged.  I’m gonna make some noise!  I’m going to be… me.

Don’t settle.  In your work.  In your home, with your family.  Make deep, beautiful relationships that last.  Friendships that matter.  Create.  Breathe.  Dream.

Don’t leave this life unresolved.  Don’t settle.

Intelligence is sexy.

It’s in a word.  A group of words strung together and then danced around in a simple dialogue that provokes… teases.  Eyes caught in the moment, but not just raw emotion, attraction.  That’s obvious.  But the back and forth.  The thirst for knowledge and voice with another.  Sitting for hours just listening.  Understanding.  Follow up with a memory that the other’s words draw out.  Or feel the need to ask a question to gain more understanding.  Not lost for topics, or intellectual sparks.  Realizing that this pulls you in as much as the deep eyes that sparkle.  Or the smile, the lips that you hope to taste.

And when it is there.  It’s so freakin’ awesome!

The world shows us beauty, found in a fashion model, a movie star, an ‘endorsable’ former athlete.  George Clooney (though I have a feeling he’s pretty smart).  The Kardashians (not so smart).  But even George Hamilton (long, long time ago) had to age eventually.  Tom Brady will one day fail as a quarterback and even his schoolboy good looks will be wrinkled, though probably still lusted over by many a man or woman.

Beyond that, there is something very deep about finding the beauty that lies within.  It is where the heart, soul reside and makes each of us unique and special.  And I have come to the further realization that when you find a deep conversation comes out of the blue and peaks your interest, you hang on to it, savoring the moments.  It’s intoxicating in a way.  To talk about more than just the menu or the beer selection.

And there are very different ways that intelligence is shown.  It can be street-smarts with a keen knowledge of how the city breathes, grows, similar to detective Kate Beckett on the show Castle.  She was intuitive, hardnosed and driven.  Or like a young Stevie Nicks, creatively deep and embracing an understanding of musical colors and rhythm, like swaying trees under a Harvest Moon.  Some can be Politically, Socially, Economically accomplished.  Yes, there is something very intoxicating about them all.  Or it can be someone who knows how to read others, guide them through hard times and help them focus.  

Common interests.

Listening.

Easy Communication.

Time shared and moments that linger.

All showing me again... 

Intelligence is sexy!

Shed

Everyone left.  Yet I still survive.  I have found that I have the annoying quality of surviving!  And now, I’m tired of just surviving.  I want to thrive.  I want the chance to shed old skin and focus on the road, the path ahead.

Shed skin.  Shed unhealthy relationships.  Shed unwarranted expectations.  Shed pounds.  Shed tears.

Shed the uncertainty that I have always struggled with.  So, I sat inside Decatur City Church today and the pastor was talking about fear.  And then he brought up Hebrews 11.  “By faith Noah.… By faith Sarah…” 

By Faith Chad?

Hebrews 11:1
“...faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see.”

I hope.  I desperately want, but maybe I should just know.  Know that there will be someone who will come beside me.  Hell, there already is.  But it’s not a person.  It’s a being much bigger and much stronger than me.

My own personal faith is the only thing that has always been here beside me.  Sometimes pulling me a little bit along, other times pushing, but never taking over.  More guiding, trying to just help direct the way.

Maybe it’s time.

Without fear.  

Recklessly seeking.

Permission to do it on my terms,  not anyone else’s.

Irreverently Relevant.

Finding home.

I wait

I stand on the mountain top.  Eyes searching until my view drops off into the horizon.  I’m still looking.  Still searching.  Not for my faith, my father. Those I have found and they resonate, but for one person.  I come up here to breathe, to collect my thoughts, away from the world.  But I also know that here I am at my most vulnerable.  Here is where I am fully aware of just how small I really am, as I look below.  And though I’m not lonely, here is where I know how alone I truly am.

I stand still, listening to the breeze carried over the pines, the softwoods of the Appalachians.  I smell the air crisp with a hint of autumn’s arrival.  I wait.  I’ve been here before.  It’s where I go to heal.  And I’ve needed quite a healing this time.  This time I let my heart be totally exposed.  And (she) just about killed me.  But I still know I had to try.  To find myself opening up is the scariest thing I can do, yet I do.  I do willingly and often.  Though not to the depth that 2013 allowed.

Will you come?  I sincerely hope so.  I will wait for you.  I long for you.  I don’t know your face or your name, but my heart will know.  Even when it becomes bogged down with all that surrounds me, I know that it will know when you arrive.  I just hope that I am still standing.  Amongst the verdant hillside.  Atop a place that gives me breath enough to say “hello”.

One. Good. Deed.

So I’ve written a lot of blogs and the focus often revolves around my crap and what I’ve done to try to get out of it, but that seems to be just a little too much about me. Let’s do something a little different.  Why don’t we talk about what would happen if we truly, every day tried to make a little change for good.  I’ve written ‘Do+ Good’ recently.  I’ve talked about ‘Getting Up’, and I’ve talked about the things that make me tick and help me to be motivated to face each day. But what if it doesn’t take some big gesture, or some message from above, or some scripture that you may or may not believe in.  What if making a difference comes from doing one good deed?  Every day.  For a week, a month, or year.  What if we could take a moment and just think outside ourselves?  What if we could say to ourselves “you know what, there’s a bigger world than my depression, than my alcoholism, than my codependent behaviors”?

Back in 2002 I saw the movie “Pay it Forward”.  Helen Hunt, Kevin Spacey and that little kid who got a ton of work around that time, you know the one from “the Sixth Sense”.  And I cried as I watched the community rally behind what started as a small gesture – and saw it grow into a movement that was televised in the film across the nation.  I don’t know that we need something that big.  And I can’t fathom accomplishing something as big as the movie portrays.  But I think I can do one good thing each day.  And hope that my small gesture helps.

So here’s my challenge… I am seriously asking each and every one of you (all four of you that read this blog)… Go tomorrow and keep your eyes aware… Find something that speaks to you, from someone that needs help, or an animal that needs rescuing, or maybe it’s just simply serving somewhere when you really would rather just go home and take a nap.  Do one good deed.  This isn’t about faith or about religion or about a higher calling, it’s just being part of a bigger community.  Some say it takes a village, but I’m just asking you to remind yourself that it’s not about us and our families.  It’s not all about “me”.  That the opportunity to reach down and give a helping hand to someone makes us better.  It makes us grow.  It allows us to not wallow.  And I know I’ve done a damn lot of wallowing.  Too much damn wallowing!

Without realizing it I started this about three weeks ago.  It wasn’t every day, but I found that I was hearing subtle leadings that led me to do something.  And maybe that’s all it takes.  But I think it’s deeper than that.  I’m asking you to do this for a week.  Find something good that speaks to your heart.  It may be hard at first, but I guarantee you they will be there.

Today we were on a bike ride on the silver comet trail out in West Georgia.  At around 2 miles into the ride one of the ladies in our group fell hard and hit her head on the concrete, scraped up her knee and arm, and was out.  Not passed out, but she was done riding for the day, slightly dizzy, shaken.  Instead of us canceling the ride, two of us took the time to get her back on her feet.  I walked her back to her car and made sure was safe and OK to drive.  I also managed to not run over her head after she went down, considering I was right behind her when it happened. That would’ve been a little bad (though it has been stated that in group outings with the AOC there is an unofficial 10% attrition rate).

Over the last three weeks I’ve been able to give grocery money, to help someone get back to real life from a pretty hard place, to help my parents move, to see the smile of appreciation from someone who lit up when I handed her one of my prized ukuleles.  A musician friend, who has done so much for me that I felt like I should give back to her.  We don’t know when we’re going to touch someone’s life.  But unless you try it’s never going to happen.

So take my challenge!

For the next week, look for one thing each day.  Be intent on going outside your comfort zone.  It’s amazing.  Instead of focusing on myself, I’m looking for that right person who might need someone to talk to, help with directions, or need a hot meal.

One week.

One good deed.

Each and every day.

Get UP!

What breeds inside you?  And how do we sometimes unknowingly help those diseases of the body and mind continue to spread?  Why can’t we just be ‘normal’?  Why the hell is it so hard to just get up in the morning?

Those questions radiate within me.  They are sometimes soft echoes and other days are torrential storms that keep me inside my own head.  Storm clouds on the horizon.  And without some serious intent (followed by action) each day, I succumb.  I dive.  I fall.  And the meds just aren’t enough.  They buffer and help contain, but it still takes my own self, in various ways to push me out of bed.  Does this resonate with any of you?

I’m not sayin that you HAVE to have these struggles.  But if you do, you’ll get it.  If you don’t, I’d like to share my own insights on the mind of the mentally ‘challenged’.  And aren’t we all a little f*cked up at times?

I have a pattern I fall into on good days.  Eyes open.  Music playing in my head (anything from Taylor Swift to Peter Gabriel to Foo Fighters).  I get up, fix my coffee, and if you know me a little then you know I don’t really like to SPEAK to anyone, for fear of ripping them a new one, until I’ve had my coffee.  Just a sip to know that there is something good and caffeinated in the universe!

Then I settle down to take a few minutes – what I’ve started to realize is a reflection of where I’m at and what the day holds.  Sometimes faith, sometimes just the plan for the day.  Sometimes the haze takes a little longer to wear off.  But if I get those moments, then I seem to find a better focus.  A better understanding of me, the day, and purpose.  And it varies, but the days I take the time are precious and seem to have more certainty and movement.

On not-so-good days I ache.  Not necessarily a physical ache, but an ache of my spirit battling the demons inside and my own wishes to not have to do this again.  Not wanting to try.  To bury my head in the pillow and wallow. I wallow for a while.  But I don’t want to be this way.  I want to be what others call normal.  But this is my normal.  My attempts to be like those who easily get out of bed and face each day often fail.  I realize my normal consists of a struggle within, a mental and spiritual one that is painful to talk with around those who don’t know my life.  That even those close to me sometimes quietly cringe when I mention it took me THREE HOURS to get going.  Not wanting to comprehend the mind of the depressed, the “sick”.

It’s not every day.  I have found that there are specific actions I can take to see more good days than the bad, painful ones.

Call it prayer, meditation, thoughtfulness, whatever – but the moments that I spend in the morning are echoed at night.  I try to go to sleep with a few moments without the ‘noise’.  And each night, I embrace ONE GOOD THING that I hope to do the next day.  Something outside myself, because let’s face it, it’s easy to get so caught up on me, me, me, that I can’t even see anything beyond my own path.  But we’re here to commune with others.  But that doesn’t always mean within the walls of our man-made cathedrals of brick, mortar and steel.  We need to help others.  To DO GOOD (see previous blog).  And in getting my head out of my ass and thinking beyond me, I am able to care, to hope, to love, instead of sinking more into my own grief and pain.  

I have hope for each day. 

Because whether or not my morning is hard or easy, without a little hope, what’s it all really about?

I see...

You see Christ.  I see a skeptic.

You see lights and sounds, a show.  I see a small church with aged pews and mildewing seats.

You see a crowd of excited people, looking, longing.  I see a man sitting alone.  Pondering God from the perspective of a homeless wanderer.

My belief, in the midst of my disbelief, is very real.

You perform on a stage.  I sit in the real.  Tired of trying to fit in with a culture that raised, bruised and almost buried me.

You see a savior.  I see a man sitting in your church.  All too aware that my thoughts might scare some, surprise others, yet still wondering if there is ONE here who might really want to know…

…me.

WALLS

We build walls. 

We build them to protect ourselves from the elements, we build them to keep us safe from attacks from enemies, but we also build walls to hide.

I wonder sometimes if we shouldn’t be building more fences than walls.

I want to be safe just like everyone else does, but I’ve noticed that my walls can be so high that no one, no living creature can surmount them.  Not even Superman.

Maybe if we spent more time building fences, we could use some of that effort used to build walls and build some fucking bridges!

“We, as people, very much like our walls.
It’s safe.  But lonely.”
     ~ K. Holder

I’m not always safe.  I’m never dangerous, but I may not always do things the “appropriate” way.  I don’t want to be lonely.  I want to thrive, and live, and surround myself with really incredible people!

Once you get inside the walls, you’re trusted.  You’re one of my ‘people’.  And that’s a place that not many will ever know or experience.  But sometimes I just push those I am closest to outside and lock the gate.  An extremely extroverted introvert, I want to hide behind those walls in the hardest times.  When I’m licking my wounds or just in pain from a little boy being absent again.

I find myself sitting here alone, walls all intact.

But in a few short days someone comes in and refuses to go away.  They knock at the gate.  I hesitate, but realize what I’ve been waiting for may have just shown up.  

And hope to knock down a few walls.

DEXTER

So, a serial killer with the penchant for killing other serial killers. Even if you have seen the TV show, you’re probably sitting there going “where the hell is he going with this?”  But that’s what’s been on my mind over the last week or so.  Not the desire to start hunting down really bad people and carve them up.  I’ll leave that to the main character of the show.  But the inner monologue that really is the heart of the development of the show.  SPOILER ALERT – I may spill a few secrets about the show in this…

So, I have within me an inner dialogue.  It’s the small conversations that I keep inside that guide me, frustrate me, give me creative ideas or just burst forth with song lyrics at the most inappropriate times.  And it’s a part of me that has probably helped me tough out some very hard times.  That voice has seen me at my best, my worst.  It knows me.  Maybe the only place I’ve ever been truly honest.  Truly vulnerable.  I don’t go around living in lies, but there are always walls.  Castles I’ve built, had destroyed, built up again, that guard the most precious parts of me.

In the show, Dexter is his own narrator.  His voice, his internal paranoia, and sometimes clarity are oftentimes as fascinating as the action that’s happening on the screen.  And in a sick, twisted way you see him grow.  His reality changes as he starts to grow in his relationships, but never fully able to tell those around him, those that he loves (if he’s capable of love) that he’s a FREAKIN’ SERIAL KILLER!!!!

Fear.  Of course, his fear is that of jail, death, being known in the world he works in – the Miami Police department.  Isn’t that funny?  He hides in plain sight amongst the same people who would have him locked up forever if they knew him, really knew him.  And more than that, he HELPS them to find killers.  Whoever came up with the idea for this show is genius.  Pure F**King Genius!

I hide.  I am scared.  I had the realization in my counseling session this week that even in that incredibly safe place, I don’t feel completely safe.  My counselor was actually slightly saddened by this.  Not shocked, but with everything we’ve walked through, years of pain, Lee, Jenelle, I think he hoped that I had found a refuge.  And in many ways, I have.  But I am still afraid.  I know me.  I’m damn incredible at times.  I’m also a handful.  But if I told you everything I’ve experienced, everything I know, I still fear that you’d run.  Run far away.  I’m not a sicko, but I don’t have a cookie-cutter, everything easily lines up in neat rows past.  I have a dirty, ugly, “oh-my-god we’ll pray for him” (while secretly judging him) past.

And those same prayers, though meant to be a help, are often one of the biggest triggers to hide a little more.  To submerge deeper into safety.  I know there’s a God out there that loves me, and I even hide from him.  Funny, but true.  How do you hide from a God that’s everywhere, if you believe in that?  Honestly, I don’t know anything other than to try to be the best person I can be, be myself, as long as you can handle a little disruption (I’ve been told I enjoy ‘stirring’ things).  

And that’s what these blogs are often about.  They are my inner monologue trying to find voice.  They’re not everything I think, but they allow me to see my life.  Look at where I’m at and try to work through the places that hurt, struggle, or even the good thoughts and feelings.  It is a safe place.  And if you’re reading this, I’m allowing you to see a little of me inside.  Yes, there are many areas that I still hide, but I continue to grow, like my favorite serial killer.  

My counselor knows me.  And I’m going to keep opening up there.  My “village” knows me better than just about anyone.  My best friend seems to sense things without words.  He kills me with his quirky ability to time things when they are really needed.  It’s almost eerie. 

And I hope to one day have the one person who will allow me to speak.  Without judgement.  Without fear.  With sincerity, and a lot of sass!

In the end, I don’t want to be sitting in a room, alone.  Even if it is the way my serial killer hero ended it. (MAJOR SPOILER)

Born to be Wild

“Like a true nature's child
We were born, born to be wild
We can climb so high
I never wanna die”
~ Steppenwolf


What happens when a child of the streets, grown from the mires of Cedartown, raised partially in Glenn’s bar, wild and full of hell and all it’s fury, grows up?

Even before taking a breath there was the environment.  The cause and effect of liquid highs and the sentimentalities and loyalties of the street.  She had no other course.  Be what was known.  Be bigger, tougher, Wilder…

‘Climb so high’ without thinking about death, abuse, jail, living in the toxic.  Living on those same streets that her parents helped tear up years before.  I don’t know her story well enough to give you the specifics.  But I do know her now.  I’ve pieced together a pretty solid picture of what really matters.  How a street-smart kid from Cedartown has become a passionate force.  Not just an advocate, but a storm of fury towards the life she once lived, a battering ram to knock down the walls built of the stigma of the poor and the addicted life she knew so well.

A heart that is so tender, shielded behind the windshield of a Teal & Chrome Harley.

The Wild didn’t die.  It did go through struggles and hardships that I have gleamed, heard of, been trusted with.  And those parts of all of us make us stronger if we let them.  For her, walking through the elements to get to a job on third shift to feed her family.  Going to school.  Fighting to not be one of the Polk County casualties.  Working as a Case Manager, Peer Leader, Therapist in that same community that she once terrorized.

I admit, and I’ll get crap from her later for saying this, I want to be more like her.  Alive.  Passionate.  Focused on trying to fix a system that shutters when she comes through the door.  The State of Georgia was so scared that they hired her!

But she is also my friend.  Someone I deeply care about.  I’ve listened as she cried when her son was caught up in the same world that she fought so hard to move beyond.  I know that she has helped me more than I thought possible to take my own hurts and use them.  Not dwell in them.  Maybe if we took a moment and tried to be as passionate, we would find places in our own lives to grow from instead of wallow.

So I’m saying thanks.  Wrayanne, you truly rock!

Born to be Wild.

Need to Hear

It was loud.  Rather nasty sounding, ranging from a malfunctioning heartbeat to a cacophony of untrained beats.  And it was one of the most rewarding experiences in my teaching career.

It all started with a school visit to the charter school I taught at in Atlanta from the Atlanta School for the Deaf.  They were coming to see how another school functioned, a ‘hearing’ school.  And as they toured the hallways I found that they were scheduled to come upstairs to see the computer lab, but not music.  Something in me, the rebel I guess, just couldn’t handle that.  I did what is in my nature.  I hijacked them from the computer lab and had a large group of deaf students come in and take a seat behind the drums.  You see, at this school I taught hand drumming.  Primal, roots based, rhythmic music.  I just had to see if they could even relate and follow.  Find a rhythm.  It was a small room and I was often accused of shaking the entire back wing of the school.  So why couldn’t they ‘feel’ they rhythms?  Make music.

You know what?  They did.

And from that day an idea was concocted.  The liaison for the deaf school, a hippy named Richie and I put together a plan, with the help of a wealthy benefactor, to start a club.  But not just any club.  We were going to somehow try to teach hand drumming to totally deaf students, without a net, without any formal music training.  Just me, a hippy and 20 high school students.

Day one was when I guess my arrogance, but also my genuine passion for people showed up.  At the onset, I had Richie translate and introduce me to the students.  They immediately called me “C-music”, but within about 5 minutes of the back and forth of translation, I was frustrated, the kids were frustrated, and this experiment was sinking fast.  I stopped Richie (one of the first signs I learned).  Got up on stage and proceeded to take my shoes off.  I pointed to the students and urged them to do the same.  Richie tried to stop everything and translate, and I yelled at him, “NO, we have to do this together.  They have to learn my language, and I’ll damn well learn theirs.”  There was a short blur of shoes being thrown, stinky feet and my translator literally scratching his head.  I learned “stop”, “look” and “focus” that day.  They watched my hands, as I demonstrated every move.  How to strike the drum.  How to sit, how to follow.  They watched, and I struggled to bridge the gap.

So, I’m just a little bit stubborn.  And at the end of that first day I knew we had only barely survived.  As I sat down with Richie and another teacher I realized that I did need some translation, but I also needed to hear.  I needed to hear the hearts and minds of these students.  And the first way I could do that, beyond letting them play on really cool drums, was to gain their respect.  I’m not deaf, well I am in one ear because of loud music over the years, but I had to join their world.  Learn how to speak.  Learn how to listen.  Day two was even more frustrating, because I continued to push off the translator and asked the kids to read my lips and teach me to sign.  “Feel”.  “Count”.  And you know what, they responded.  They would watch, eager, excited, sometimes scared.  And every time we played I was the same.  Eager, Excited.  Scared.

After about 6 month we scheduled our first concert.  A simple performance for the school.  We did it to show that a bunch of deaf kids and a non-signing teacher could somehow get together and make a lot of noise, music.  It was one of the proudest moments in my life.  I still remember some of the signs ten years later.  I wish I was proficient, but I’m so thankful that I had those two years with these students.

So, we need to hear.  We need to relish the opportunity to communicate with others.  Sometimes it takes pulling off your shoes and socks, letting your feet feel the rhythms on an old wooden stage.  Sometimes it’s just sitting down and looking someone in the eye and embracing their life, their struggles.  But we all need to hear.  To be Heard.  The music that communication makes is priceless.

"Welcome Home"

Traveling home from a long adventure, work trip, relative’s passing or wedding.  You arrive home, a place that hopefully is good to get back to.  Here’s the question… Who would be there when you arrived?  Who’s there waiting for you?

This isn’t a “post your response below” thing.  But who would be there?  Who matters to you, and more importantly, knows that their face, presence, hand would make all the travel stress, anxiety, fear, tired melt away.  In a smile, a touch, a word.  We all have someone or want someone to be there in those times.  Even those hermits (Adam) who seem to be so removed from society have a deep desire for someone who cares.  

I want that.  

But it still has eluded me, at least to the depth that I know, I believe is possible.  It’s something that makes coming home better.  People.  Relationships.  Friends.  Those who make a difference in your life.  Just by being who they are.  

So, if you have that person, or group of people in your life, hold onto them.  Tell them they matter.  And if you don’t, be patient.  Wait.  But don’t overlook the ones who do invest in you regularly.  Those who are right there beside you.

And if you’re arriving off the plane.  Walk through the terminal.  You might just find someone waiting… Right there.

DO+GOOD

I personally believe that inside us we all have the capacity and the inner desire to do good.  I know there are exceptions, times when we lack compassion, but those are muffled by my heart’s calling to reach out and to help others.  The same calling that we hope will be returned when we are down or in trouble.  But even when there is no echoing of help from places we expect it, we still have the ability to love, to help, to not turn a blind eye to those suffering beside us.  To DO GOOD.

I am ashamed that I have not been better at this. Often times using the excuses of my past to shield me from being human. Just being a human being. Focusing on a bigger picture than what my eyes see. Because sometimes my eyes are blinded by my own insecurities and hurt. I don’t walk among you better or lesser than anyone else.  I am here like most of us, trying to find my place, but maybe I should be spending more time knowing my place.  That I need to serve others while on the journey.  Not taking a sabbatical just to get to the place that I’m ‘good enough’ to serve others or ‘willing’ to serve others or ‘humbled’ enough to serve others.

Oh, I’m still rather broken. But instead of cowering in the corner, I’m hoping to make a little bit of a difference. Fucked up as I am, I want my kids to thrive, my friends to prosper, those that I work with to be successful, and the stranger to be less of a stranger, maybe a friend I just haven’t met yet.

With the recent changes in my life, I find myself again without a partner, without the person that I thought was going to be with me forever.  And I desperately want that.  But at this moment I need to make sure that I am aware, sensing what the world around me has to offer and not just tasting the delicacies, but partaking in the hard work of lending a hand or being available for those who might need it.  And there are many examples around me of how to better be a servant.  Some people will think that seems stupid.  I don’t want to be subservient to anyone, but I do want to help make life better.  And maybe store up a little of those treasures in heaven, if you believe in those.

As I was sitting in a parking lot earlier, having a phone conversation, I noticed a woman with shoes that were falling apart, tattered clothing and very dirty, disheveled hair.  Something inside me urged me to walk over to her.  But another voice inside kept my doors locked, my windows up and my head turned forward, not daring to fully look her way.

I failed.

I chose to sit in comfort in my truck and not do anything.  And as I write this, I am ashamed.  What kind of man, person am I if I sit and watch another suffering without at least trying to get their story.  We all have a story to tell.  And maybe she would have scoffed at me and resisted any help.  But what if she just needed to talk.  To share a little of herself with someone and to see compassion without judgement.  I have felt that – the judgements when you really just need to be heard.  I don’t know, but I chose to cower in safety instead of learning a little bit about someone else on this planet.  Possibly helping, definitely taking a chance.  I am truly ashamed of this.

So tomorrow I will get up and do it again, this journey of life.  I hope I’ll have the chance to redeem my choice from today, but no matter, I am more aware that I want to be better.  To truly, hopefully DO GOOD.