My wife and I had three robust, healthy children, who all reached full-bodied adulthood and went on to have children of their own. We have been blessed with eight grandchildren, who are all vibrant and in good health in their own right. Two of our grandchildren, however, arrived with problems at birth: One developed pneumonia and underwent months of breathing treatments; another arrived with a cleft palate which was surgically repaired 6 months after birth.
Nothing, nothing quite pulls at a grandparent (and I’m sure a parent) like a baby in the throes of a struggle. Thanks to lots of prayer, the 24X7 attentiveness of their parents, and some wonderful doctors and caregivers, both boys are today physically strong, willfully strong, and acting like, well, just like boys are supposed to act. And we are grateful beyond words, to say the least.
This week one of my daughter’s dearest friends, who is pregnant with her second child, received word that all may not be well with her baby. Recent tests indicated that the baby is at high risk for Down syndrome. Accordingly, a more specific series of tests have been performed, and this Friday they will be told whether the 5 chromosomal disorders have been detected. As you might expect, a young couple’s world has suddenly been turned upside down.
I’m asking my blog friends, my Facebook and Twitter friends, and anyone else who may read this piece to say a prayer for our friends. I am a believer in the power of prayer. So, too, is this young family. I’ll leave the parents unnamed, but since they are both loyal St. Louis Cardinals fans, we’ll call the baby Baby Redbird, and if you mention Baby Redbird in your prayers, at a time and in a manner of your own choosing, I’m quite certain that God will sort it out in his own infinite wisdom. And there is absolutely no doubt in my mind that He will answer those prayers, in His own divine way, and provide encouragement and strength to this family at a time of need only a few among us can really understand.
I sincerely thank you in advance for this young couple, and you certainly have my own appreciation.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Alma Mater
I traveled to Athens yesterday for a visit to my alma mater, the University of Georgia. The occasion was the Bulldogs annual spring football game, G-Day, where admission is free and the families bring throngs of excited kids attired in red-and-black. Along with 40,000 of my closest friends, we all enjoyed the game, the weather, and our unflagging expectations for another great season from our beloved Dawgs.
The daughter of one of our parking-lot regulars had been accepted to UGA and with great excitement she was looking forward to reporting to campus in the Fall. It reminded me of how I felt when I got my acceptance, and how the cycle of excited incoming freshmen has been repeating itself since 1785. The enrollment has grown by three times in the forty-plus years since I began as a student, and there are lots of new buildings that have been thoughtfully added to the lovely landscape. But there are enough of the old buildings and old trees and familiar road names to confirm to me that I am in a place I love and revere.
I was the first member of my family to have an opportunity to go to college. The first one, ever. The University of Georgia was my choice, and it was one of the wiser decisions I’ve made in life. UGA was plenty challenging, and my fellow accounting-major classmates still stand out in my mind as some of the brightest, most able people I’ve ever encountered, anywhere. I learned I had to work harder to compete with so many gifted, ambitious people. UGA left it up to me to make those choices—work hard and compete or fall behind; work hard and compete or always be prepared to settle for the leftovers; work hard and compete or just go home. They cared little about my self-esteem or my modest means, but only about my demonstrable grasp of the material. It prepared me for the Marine Corps, for graduate school, and for life in the rough-and-tumble of the business world. They gave me something that I needed far more than a mere understanding of balance sheets and income statements. They gave me a lesson in life.
And I am forever indebted.
I am deeply proud of my alma mater, grateful for what it did for me, for what it now means to me. The University will have my devotion and loyalty for as long as I live. I will never tire of returning to that beautiful space, breathing that refreshing air, and allowing the many memories of long ago to take me back to my youth, however briefly. I remember telling my late father upon my daughter’s UGA graduation that he should be proud of the legacy he and my mother began. And I could tell from the look on his face that he was profoundly satisfied that his children and grandchildren would all be college graduates. He was proud just like I was when my own kids graduated, just like my parking-lot friend will be in a few short years. It truly is a very special place.
Go Dawgs!
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
A Trip For The Ages
My wife and I recently concluded a group trip to Israel that was remarkable in this sense: I’ve never visited any other place that was so dense in human history, so diverse in language, culture, and religion, and so determinative in the origins of my own Christian faith. Too, I have never been in a land where such a perceptible spiritual presence was always hovering, unobtrusive but always there for the taking, like a refreshing, restorative breath of mountain air. It truly was a trip for the ages, and I’ll be grateful for the rest of my earthly days that I could walk where Jesus walked (even with my still floppy foot from recent back surgery).
For those of you who have yet to visit the Holy Land, nothing I could write here could adequately describe the experience in actually viewing what one has read about, been taught, and seen in pictures since childhood. I suppose it’s a bit like seeing for the first time your own newborn baby—its effects are profoundly affecting and indescribable, and only when experiencing it for yourself do you then begin to comprehend its significance. Such was my visit to Israel.
My pastor son was a co-host, together with another talented young American pastor. Our Israeli host was steeped in the history of Israel and added richness and texture with his explanations of Jewish culture and tradition. My son had a gift of providing just the right words of his own with exactly the right verse of scripture to provide context and illumination to the sites we visited.
There were many highlights, and these are but a few:
• Saying a prayer at the Western Wall (that’s me in red in the photo, hardly an Orthodox look). The 2,000-year-old Wall was itself not part of the ancient Temple, but instead a massive retaining wall. I also placed a prayer on a slip of paper into a crack between the massive stones. Jewish custom holds that as soon as the paper touches the Wall, the prayer is sent. The cracks are cleared of the written prayers several times a year, and buried with reverence in a Jewish cemetery.
• Looking out at the Sea of Galilee, hearing the water lapping at the rocks on shore, breathing the air, hearing the birds, and seeing the same surrounding hills that Jesus saw so often, along with Peter and the other disciples.
• Looking over at Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives, across the Kidron Valley, at the Temple Mount, the Lions’ Gate, and the surrounding Old City. It is firmly fixed in my mind as the single most grand and moving geographical sight I have ever before witnessed. I could have stood there for a week, contemplating its significance, its idiosyncratic (and sometimes competing) vibes of both reverence and tension, even its uniquely complex and sprawling beauty. As well, the nearby Garden of Gethsemane is equally mesmerizing in its own quiet way.
• Visiting an old synagogue in Nazareth where the stones on the floor and walls dated to the time of Jesus. He was here, I kept thinking. He played on these stones as a child. He listened to and was taught by the rabbis here. When my son read from Luke 4: 16-31, where Jesus had returned to this same small building as a minister in his own right, I’m quite certain the hair on my arms stood up. He is here, I now thought. It may have been the singular most powerful moment of the trip for me.
• Taking communion at the Garden Tomb. An empty ancient tomb, Golgotha “the place of the skull,” and the remembrance not only of a crucifixion, but also the celebration of a resurrection that forever changed the world. And me along with it.
What an experience. What a trip. Writing this makes me want to go again.
Shalom, y’all.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Get Up Offa That Thang
It’s been an interesting year thus far.
Long story short: A week before Christmas I had pain that radiated from the lower back through the hip to the leg, and eventually settled into the lower leg and foot. The pain was relentless, and sleep was scarce. I sought the help of a chiropractor whose treatments eventually moderated the pain. Then my foot dropped and became floppy (in technical medical parlance: not a good sign). I saw an orthopedist that ordered an MRI and soon thereafter advised that my back was, as we say in the South, a mess. So, in early February I underwent back surgery to relieve the compressed nerves. And the surgery went well.
Already on my schedule was a trip to Israel, the trip of a lifetime with the tour being guided by none other than my eldest son.
Yep, now I’m in a real mess.
So, less than a week after surgery I decided to start walking to strengthen the muscles in my leg. I really want to make this trip. My doc’s withholding judgment until my two-week follow up visit. The walking is physically taxing but tolerable, but the aftermath the next day hurts. I mean, really hurts. So I walk some more. And it hurts too.
I came upon a hawk in the road ahead on one of my walks, a gorgeous, golden, powerful creature, and he was busily studying something in the asphalt and paid me little heed. Finally he ascended to a nearby limb and waited for me to limp on by. He then looked down at me and made a calm, restrained noise as I passed, but since I don’t speak hawk, I greeted him in English, tipped my cap, and moved along.
It took a while, but I think the hawk was telling me, “No pain, no gain. You’re doing the right thing.”
Get up offa that thang!
At the follow up visit, my doc said he loved my motivation but didn’t want me to overdue things. After all, he had cut into the muscles in my lower back, and as you’ve already noticed they’ll bark loudly when stressed. My back is otherwise structurally sound, even though the feeling has not yet returned to my foot. He also said that if I felt like I can tolerate the trip, then he’d leave it up to me to make the decision.
So I walked some more. And the pain began to lessen. I knew my friend the hawk was right all along. And so was James Brown.
I’m going to Israel.
Shalom.
Long story short: A week before Christmas I had pain that radiated from the lower back through the hip to the leg, and eventually settled into the lower leg and foot. The pain was relentless, and sleep was scarce. I sought the help of a chiropractor whose treatments eventually moderated the pain. Then my foot dropped and became floppy (in technical medical parlance: not a good sign). I saw an orthopedist that ordered an MRI and soon thereafter advised that my back was, as we say in the South, a mess. So, in early February I underwent back surgery to relieve the compressed nerves. And the surgery went well.
Already on my schedule was a trip to Israel, the trip of a lifetime with the tour being guided by none other than my eldest son.
Yep, now I’m in a real mess.
So, less than a week after surgery I decided to start walking to strengthen the muscles in my leg. I really want to make this trip. My doc’s withholding judgment until my two-week follow up visit. The walking is physically taxing but tolerable, but the aftermath the next day hurts. I mean, really hurts. So I walk some more. And it hurts too.
I came upon a hawk in the road ahead on one of my walks, a gorgeous, golden, powerful creature, and he was busily studying something in the asphalt and paid me little heed. Finally he ascended to a nearby limb and waited for me to limp on by. He then looked down at me and made a calm, restrained noise as I passed, but since I don’t speak hawk, I greeted him in English, tipped my cap, and moved along.
It took a while, but I think the hawk was telling me, “No pain, no gain. You’re doing the right thing.”
Get up offa that thang!
At the follow up visit, my doc said he loved my motivation but didn’t want me to overdue things. After all, he had cut into the muscles in my lower back, and as you’ve already noticed they’ll bark loudly when stressed. My back is otherwise structurally sound, even though the feeling has not yet returned to my foot. He also said that if I felt like I can tolerate the trip, then he’d leave it up to me to make the decision.
So I walked some more. And the pain began to lessen. I knew my friend the hawk was right all along. And so was James Brown.
I’m going to Israel.
Shalom.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Ali - Still the Greatest!
Muhammad Ali recently celebrated his 70th birthday. He has been, and remains, my favorite professional athlete of my lifetime.
I remember when, as a 22-year-old challenger to heavyweight-champion Sonny Liston, young Cassius Clay danced and jabbed and frustrated Liston, the prohibitive favorite, to such a point where the champ remained on his stool for the start of the 7th round. He became the ex-champ in an astonishing upset. “I shook up the world,” shouted the newly crowned Clay, the Louisville Lip. And I loved every minute of it.
I remember listening to the weak signal of my hometown Atlanta’s WSB Radio from Lawton, Oklahoma for a round-by-round recap of the first Ali-Frazier fight in Madison Square Garden in 1971. I hated it when Ali lost.
I remember when Ali was stripped of his title for failing to enter the Army in 1967. I remember when he fought and defeated an outclassed Jerry Quarry in Atlanta in 1970 to begin his quest to regain the heavyweight championship. I remember his rope-a-dope strategy to defeat a younger, stronger George Foreman in Zaire in 1974. And the 3rd fight with Frazier, the Thrilla in Manila in 1975, was perhaps the bravest athletic exhibition by two competitors I’ve ever seen. I loved it when Ali won back his championship belt.
I remember how sad I felt when Ali’s skills deteriorated to a point where he began losing badly in the late Seventies and early Eighties. He was getting hit in the head a lot, and at times it was almost too ugly to bear. It made me feel my own mortality in an odd way that I’d never experienced before, and in that odd way I felt for both of us.
I remember Ali walking out of the shadows with the Olympic torch in his trembling hand to light the flame for the 1996 Summer Games in Atlanta. My wife pointed and shouted, “It’s Muhammad!” With tears in both our eyes, I realized that Billy Payne, the Atlanta Olympics chief and a classmate of mine at UGA, had gotten it exactly right. Billy’s choice to light the flame had been spot-on perfect. The most famous person in the world was once again on a world stage, and I’ll never forget it.
I didn’t agree with Ali’s politics; I didn’t agree with his stance on serving in the military; I didn’t always like the way he taunted opponents in and outside the ring. But he has the heart of a lion, still, and I love that about him. Like it or not, he stood up for what he believed. He never flinched, never took a step backward. He paid a heavy price for his stance, but then he fought his way back to the top of his sport.
There’s been no one like him. He is truly an American treasure.
You’re still the greatest, champ. Happy birthday.
I remember when, as a 22-year-old challenger to heavyweight-champion Sonny Liston, young Cassius Clay danced and jabbed and frustrated Liston, the prohibitive favorite, to such a point where the champ remained on his stool for the start of the 7th round. He became the ex-champ in an astonishing upset. “I shook up the world,” shouted the newly crowned Clay, the Louisville Lip. And I loved every minute of it.
I remember listening to the weak signal of my hometown Atlanta’s WSB Radio from Lawton, Oklahoma for a round-by-round recap of the first Ali-Frazier fight in Madison Square Garden in 1971. I hated it when Ali lost.
I remember when Ali was stripped of his title for failing to enter the Army in 1967. I remember when he fought and defeated an outclassed Jerry Quarry in Atlanta in 1970 to begin his quest to regain the heavyweight championship. I remember his rope-a-dope strategy to defeat a younger, stronger George Foreman in Zaire in 1974. And the 3rd fight with Frazier, the Thrilla in Manila in 1975, was perhaps the bravest athletic exhibition by two competitors I’ve ever seen. I loved it when Ali won back his championship belt.
I remember how sad I felt when Ali’s skills deteriorated to a point where he began losing badly in the late Seventies and early Eighties. He was getting hit in the head a lot, and at times it was almost too ugly to bear. It made me feel my own mortality in an odd way that I’d never experienced before, and in that odd way I felt for both of us.
I remember Ali walking out of the shadows with the Olympic torch in his trembling hand to light the flame for the 1996 Summer Games in Atlanta. My wife pointed and shouted, “It’s Muhammad!” With tears in both our eyes, I realized that Billy Payne, the Atlanta Olympics chief and a classmate of mine at UGA, had gotten it exactly right. Billy’s choice to light the flame had been spot-on perfect. The most famous person in the world was once again on a world stage, and I’ll never forget it.
I didn’t agree with Ali’s politics; I didn’t agree with his stance on serving in the military; I didn’t always like the way he taunted opponents in and outside the ring. But he has the heart of a lion, still, and I love that about him. Like it or not, he stood up for what he believed. He never flinched, never took a step backward. He paid a heavy price for his stance, but then he fought his way back to the top of his sport.
There’s been no one like him. He is truly an American treasure.
You’re still the greatest, champ. Happy birthday.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Captain of the Ship
Like many of you, I’ve been struck by the news of the recent cruise-ship fiasco off the coast of Italy. If the stories are indeed accurate about the behavior of the captain after his ship’s grounding and incapacitation, then his name may become synonymous with cowardice in the same sense that Benedict Arnold’s is identified as traitorous. And cowardice may be the least of the captain’s problems before all is finally settled.
How could such a man be entrusted with an expensive vessel and hundreds of lives in his care? Shouldn’t something in his character have been noticed along the way which would’ve raised a red flag about his fitness? I’m guessing that the red flags were there all along. Maybe not, but I’d bet that clues will surface suggesting this guy was a loose cannon. And just as likely, we’ll find that nobody in a position of authority did anything about it. Now, lives have been lost, property has been destroyed, and the threat of an environmental disaster is looming.
Captains stay with their ships.
Did no one ever teach this guy that age-old maxim? Can you imagine the chaos that would’ve followed if a panicked Capt. Sullenberger had immediately elbowed his way out of the cockpit and jumped into a lifeboat after the airliner he was piloting crash-landed in the Hudson River?
The Marine Corps taught us as young lieutenants that officers eat last. When the troops have been fed, only then do the officers eat (and only if anything is left). It’s all about responsibility; it’s about being in charge and looking out for your people. Commanders stay with their men. Captains stay with their ships.
The marketplace will not be kind to the cruise-ship company. And it shouldn’t. The company had a buffoon in its employ whose judgment was suspect in normal times and whose spinelessness was tragically evident in a crisis. It was a recipe for disaster, and a disaster is what they got. It’s virtually guaranteed that other cruise-ship companies are reviewing their ship captains’ records of performance, at this very moment, looking for those red flags.
It’s sad that this one slipped through the cracks only after his ship was on its side and he was elsewhere.
How could such a man be entrusted with an expensive vessel and hundreds of lives in his care? Shouldn’t something in his character have been noticed along the way which would’ve raised a red flag about his fitness? I’m guessing that the red flags were there all along. Maybe not, but I’d bet that clues will surface suggesting this guy was a loose cannon. And just as likely, we’ll find that nobody in a position of authority did anything about it. Now, lives have been lost, property has been destroyed, and the threat of an environmental disaster is looming.
Captains stay with their ships.
Did no one ever teach this guy that age-old maxim? Can you imagine the chaos that would’ve followed if a panicked Capt. Sullenberger had immediately elbowed his way out of the cockpit and jumped into a lifeboat after the airliner he was piloting crash-landed in the Hudson River?
The Marine Corps taught us as young lieutenants that officers eat last. When the troops have been fed, only then do the officers eat (and only if anything is left). It’s all about responsibility; it’s about being in charge and looking out for your people. Commanders stay with their men. Captains stay with their ships.
The marketplace will not be kind to the cruise-ship company. And it shouldn’t. The company had a buffoon in its employ whose judgment was suspect in normal times and whose spinelessness was tragically evident in a crisis. It was a recipe for disaster, and a disaster is what they got. It’s virtually guaranteed that other cruise-ship companies are reviewing their ship captains’ records of performance, at this very moment, looking for those red flags.
It’s sad that this one slipped through the cracks only after his ship was on its side and he was elsewhere.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Year of the Dragon
Did you know that 2012 in the Chinese New Year is the Year of the Dragon?
I kinda like that. There’s something powerful and mysterious about a dragon. Dragons usually appear with a body like a huge lizard, or a snake with two pairs of lizard-type legs, able to emit fire from its mouth. The European dragon has bat-type wings growing from its back. An American dragon might be seen in a New England Patriots cap and holding a bolt-action rifle. Hence no need for the fiery breath, or the wings. Or anything else European, for that matter.
I think 2012 will be a great year. Here’s why:
• Novel #3 will be released later this year through my new publisher, Navigator Books.
• My eldest son will guide a tour of Israel for a group that will include his mom and dad. My middle son’s non-profit will start benefiting orphans who at this moment have no hope. My daughter’s small business will start acting mid-sized.
• I’ll get another terrific annual treat and get to see my grandkids play baseball and soccer.
• My sciatic nerve will stop being angry with me, my wife’s knee will be scoped and fixed, and we'll celebrate being pain-free with a Mexican dinner in Marietta.
• My kids and grandkids will fight the successful fight with the allergies that so exasperate them.
• The Atlanta Braves will give Chipper Jones a National League pennant and a chance for a World Series ring as his fabulous career comes to an end.
• The Georgia Bulldogs will win the SEC and get to the national-championship game.
• The U.S. economy will gain even more traction and put more Americans back to work.
• There will be a national election in November (Thank God!).
Here’s hoping the very best for you and yours in 2012!
I kinda like that. There’s something powerful and mysterious about a dragon. Dragons usually appear with a body like a huge lizard, or a snake with two pairs of lizard-type legs, able to emit fire from its mouth. The European dragon has bat-type wings growing from its back. An American dragon might be seen in a New England Patriots cap and holding a bolt-action rifle. Hence no need for the fiery breath, or the wings. Or anything else European, for that matter.
I think 2012 will be a great year. Here’s why:
• Novel #3 will be released later this year through my new publisher, Navigator Books.
• My eldest son will guide a tour of Israel for a group that will include his mom and dad. My middle son’s non-profit will start benefiting orphans who at this moment have no hope. My daughter’s small business will start acting mid-sized.
• I’ll get another terrific annual treat and get to see my grandkids play baseball and soccer.
• My sciatic nerve will stop being angry with me, my wife’s knee will be scoped and fixed, and we'll celebrate being pain-free with a Mexican dinner in Marietta.
• My kids and grandkids will fight the successful fight with the allergies that so exasperate them.
• The Atlanta Braves will give Chipper Jones a National League pennant and a chance for a World Series ring as his fabulous career comes to an end.
• The Georgia Bulldogs will win the SEC and get to the national-championship game.
• The U.S. economy will gain even more traction and put more Americans back to work.
• There will be a national election in November (Thank God!).
Here’s hoping the very best for you and yours in 2012!
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