Author Archives Terry

“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens…”Ecclesiastes 3:1

I love trees. Some of the most enjoyable moments of my boyhood revolve around trees, whether climbing, swinging, camping beneath, decorating or being around them. True, I was once knocked unconscious as a result of a fall from a small pin oak, but that was no fault of the tree. As a woodworker and builder of furniture, I even love what they can become. Wood speaks to me in some primitive way that connects me with my own roots. I love to feel its varying textures in my hands; see the unpredictable beauty of its different grains; smell its dusty fragrances as I cut and shape and sand. Okay, so I’m not too fond of the sanding part, but I digress.

One of my favorite trees ever is the cherry tree that stands right outside our front window. When my wife, Carmen, and I planted it during our first year of marriage, it was just a twig and now, ten years later, it stands taller than our house, it’s branches wrapping around the front porch as though embracing it. We especially love that tree in the spring when, after standing stark and bare through a cold, dreary winter, it quite suddenly bursts to life with beautiful large blossoms as white as freshly popped popcorn. Some years the blossoms hold on for nearly two weeks before falling like gentle snowflakes to the green grass below.

Other years we are not so lucky. This year we had only a couple of days to enjoy the tree in all its springtime glory when a bitter storm rolled through and blew most of the blossoms off prematurely. I suppose that’s how it is with life. Everything has a season and change is inevitable. Some seasons, like the coming of spring, are quite predictable while others, like the storms, come suddenly and unexpectedly.

Such was the case with the storm that came our way ten years ago this week. We were just shy of our second wedding anniversary, still enjoying the early bloom of marriage when Carmen was involved in a very serious and life threatening injury that left her with a severe spinal cord injury. In an instant our lives were forever changed. We went from “Marriage 101” straight to the advanced course with little warning or preparation.

We are not alone. Everyone experiences unexpected storms in this life. Jesus, himself, warned.

“In this world you will have trouble. But be of good cheer, for I have overcome the world”.

He also talked of the need to prepare for the inevitable storms of life.

“The wise man builds his house on the solid rock…”

Carmen and I long ago made the decision to build our lives and home upon the firm foundation of faith in Jesus Christ. This does not mean that the storms are less fierce, the winds less powerful or the waters less raging. It does mean that we are anchored on something stronger than ourselves; something that will never move, never shift; never give way even in the midst of the strongest tempest. Our lives and our marriage are built upon the One who controls the storm and though He may not always choose to calm it or even deliver us from it, he will always, always support and strengthen us through it.

“Once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.” – Leonardo DaVinci

As a writer, ideas are gold. One can spend countless hours mining and sifting through the raw materials of life for that one nugget which will serve as the basis for a song or story. And then sometimes you’re just going through your day when you trip over an idea and fall headlong into inspiration.

Several years ago, I got a call from my friend Brian, an avid outdoorsman who had been learning the sport of paragliding. For those of you who aren’t familiar with it, paragliding involves strapping one’s person into a harness attached to a banana shaped kite before proceeding to run off the side of a perfectly good mountain. Turns out Brian was training in Flagstaff at the same time I happened to be playing a gig in Phoenix and, since I had a couple of days off, I decided to drive up and watch the action. 

It was a beautifully bright blue day at the site where a young instructor worked with a handful of students. At the top of the mountain, they would talk and practice through various techniques before, one by one, raising their kites and taking off towards the waiting valley below. I hopped in the truck with the instructor and rode down the dusty red road to meet the students at the bottom and ferry them back to the top. After the second or third trip down, he pulled me aside.

“Normally, I’ve got a driver here for the day, but he was called in sick, which is why I’ve been doing it myself. I sure would rather fly than drive, and you seem like a pretty responsible guy. You mind taking over and driving us back up the mountain? I can’t pay you, but If you want I’ll take you flying at the end of the day.”

“I’d be happy to”, I said. “I’m riding anyway. I’d just as soon drive.”

“Be real careful”, he said. “It’s not a great road”.

“That’s okay, I’m not a great driver”, I said as I grabbed the keys and headed towards the extended cab dually pickup that would be my office for the rest of the day.

For the next few hours, I watched as each flier left the safety of the mountain peak then maneuvered my way down to the bottom in time to watch them land at the designated pick-up spot only to repeat the process over and over again. Finally, towards the end of the day, it was my turn. I strapped myself into the harness of a tandem kite with the instructor behind and after a few minutes of training, mostly on what not to do, we were ready.

Starting at the flat plateau of the mountain we leaned backwards against the weight of the harness as the kite filled with air. The guide worked the rigging until the kite was directly above and we turned to face the cliff. His instructions had been simple enough.

“Stand as steady as you can until I give the word and then run, and don’t stop running.”

If I make it sound graceful, it was anything but. As the kite filled with air, we were pulled both by the earth and sky; caught in a powerful tug of war between gravity and the wind. I struggled hard to keep my balance and footing in the rocky sand all the while praying, “God don’t let me screw this up”

When the command came, I ran. Since I was in the front harness, I could not see anything save for the gradually receding mountain as the tug of war continued. And then quite suddenly it stopped.

“You can quit running, now”, I heard from behind me. I looked down and realized my feet were still moving as the ground and gravity quickly fell away. I pulled myself up into the seat and the struggle was over. I was weightless. The wind had won.

The next few minutes were among the most amazing of my life. I could try and describe it, but words would fail. For the briefest of time, I was no longer bound to the mother earth that had always been my home. We soared; We dove; We circled, glided and rose high above the cactus and brush below, the only sound the wind and my own heart beating in my ears.

Later that evening, in the comfort and safety of the hotel room, I picked up my guitar and began describing the feeling through song. In this new experience, It seems I had stumbled onto a nugget of truth and inspiration. Sometimes, songwriting is struggling, plodding and painfully slow work. And then sometimes it is simply trying to stay out of the way while the song writes itself.

“God, don’t let me screw this up”, I thought as the words and melody flowed.

(To listen to the song click on the video below. To purchase click on the cart tab above. Thanks for listening.)

Aunt Iris was old the day I met her, or so it seemed. She was my grandmother’s sister, one of ten children who grew up in Muhlenberg County Kentucky at a time when life was both simpler and much harder.

She was a part of that greatest generation of Americans, ordinary young men and women who left their homes and families and joined together to do extraordinary things and in so doing, quite literally changed the world.

As a member of the Navy Nurse Corps,  Iris arrived at Pearl Harbor just days after the bombing. She would serve all around the Pacific Theater for thirty-one months.  She made the Navy her career, and  when she retired as a full colonel, she returned to her beloved Kentucky, never to leave again. For the longest time, I did not know about her distinguished service record. True heroes never act like heroes.

In the early 80’s I moved to Nashville where my uncle Marshall, her older brother, lived and worked as a graphic artist. He was a lifelong bachelor, and when he developed throat cancer, I took care of him during the last years of his life. It was then that I really got to know my aunt Iris as she took care of his bills and made many trips to see us in Nashville. We grew very close during that time and remained so until her death in 2004. She was one of the most intelligent and fascinating individuals I have ever met. An avid reader, she loved to talk about books, ideas and principles. Her desk was always stacked with newspaper clippings she would mail to her friends and acquaintances.

“I’m so afraid someone’s not going to know what I know,” she said only half jokingly.

We were at totally opposite ends of the political spectrum, and would quite often engage in spirited debates over government or policy or candidates only to end the conversation laughing over our differences, an ability that seems sorely lacking in today’s harsh political landscape. She loved birds and nature and thought that there was no place in the world like Kentucky. Often, I would try to get her to go on trips but she had traveled enough and rarely wanted to leave her home.

Memory has a way of canonizing those who have passed away. I do not at all mean to make her out to be a saint. She was not. She was a pack rat, who rarely threw anything away. I know because I spent weeks going through every single item after she died. She was prone to paranoia and often thought that folks were stealing from her. Either that, or folks really were stealing from her. She had a hard time letting go of grudges and could be as stubborn as any person I’ve ever known, qualities my wife might tell you are family traits. But I loved that woman dearly and for some reason, she loved me in spite of my own many flaws.

Aunt Iris never married and, other than an old Mercedez Benz that she babied, lived quite simply. She often dressed in a way that might lead one to think she barely had two nickels to rub together yet when she died she left well over a million dollars to start a scholarship fund so that any student in Muhlenberg County who qualified could go to college.

I was asked to speak about her at the dedication for that scholarship fund and put together this little movie of her telling her story in her own words. It’s hard to sum up eighty-nine years of a life in six minutes, but I did my best.

I offer it up on this Veterans Day, 2014 with special thanks to the many men and women – aunts, uncles, parents and children all – who have served and fought so that the rest of us can live in peace and freedom. To all of you we owe a debt of gratitude that we will never be able to fully repay.

God bless you all.

 

“Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice. Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you. Ephesians 4:31-32”

I’m avoiding my desk. Paperwork – things to be filed, mail to be opened, bills to be paid and receipts to be itemized – are all stacked up in need of attention. In all honesty, the word “stacked” gives me way too much organizational credit. I’m not sure at this point that I can even find my desk beneath the mountain of clutter that has gathered over time. At least it keeps me from having to dust it. The truth is it’s time to roll up my sleeves and get to work.

But first, I pour a cup of coffee and walk out to my garden. I love growing things and spending time with plants, whether vegetables or flowers, is great therapy for me. But when I walk out to my garden, I see weeds. I didn’t plant them; I don’t want them, but there they are sucking up precious resources and threatening to choke out my plants.

So now I’m avoiding my garden as well. The truth is it’s time to roll up my sleeves and get to work because whether it’s clutter or weeds the principle is the same:

Neglect carries with it consequences.

And the same is true with matters of the heart. Over time clutter can accumulate when things like un-forgiveness, hurts and disappointments are ignored. Then, like weeds in a garden, even the smallest of resentments, if not dealt with can take root and grow out of control choking out the flowers of peace, love and joy we try so hard to cultivate. Over time, weeds become harder to uproot; clutter more difficult to clear away.

It’s a lesson that has taken time for me to learn as I tend to have a hard time letting go of things. I do not possess a quick temper, and I rarely blow up but I do tend to let things simmer. Much like the clutter on my desk or the weeds in my garden, I put off dealing with them until one day I come to realize that my joy has been choked out and bitterness has taken it’s place.

My father modeled for me, in a very tangible way, the right way to deal with such issues. Late in his career, he entered into an agreement with some close business associates to help develop and market a product. Always a man of his word, he had a handshake agreement with much younger men that he had known and mentored for most of their lives. The product became successful beyond everyone’s wildest expectations and the small percentage that was due my father quickly became very significant money – money with which his associates refused to part. So, my father parted ways with them and I never heard him say a cross word about it.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” I asked him.

“If they can live with it; I can live without it,” was all he would say about the matter.

That is until several years later, just weeks before he would succumb to the cancer which had ravaged his body. I was spending time with him on the farm when it just so happened that one of the very men who had cheated him stopped by for a visit. I watched as my father received him with grace and chatted with him like an old friend. After an hour or so, when the man got ready to leave, my father thanked him for coming by.  When he was gone, I sat next to my father on the golf cart he putted around the farm on and I placed my arm around him.

“I’m proud of you, dad,” I said.

Dad, who was always uncomfortable with any show of emotion, stared straight ahead and shrugged his frail shoulders.

“Live and let live, son,” he said. “Some things just aren’t worth holding on to.”

We sat in silence for a while, those healing words like water washing over and around us, sweeping away years of clutter between father and son and dropping it into the deep, vast ocean of time. I like to think that the treasure my father gained during those moments, as the November sun set over a day well spent and a life well lived, was the kind of riches men seek for their entire lives and most never attain; the type of thing that no business deal could ever acquire and no amount of lost money could ever purchase. It certainly was for me. Dad was right, some things just aren’t worth holding on to.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for me to roll up my sleeves. I’ve got some clutter and weeds to take care of.