Month: December 2021

December has been written about a lot:

“A Winter’s day, in a cold and dark December” wrote Paul Simon.

The dark almost seems to descend upon you like a curtain being summarily dropped on a bad play. One in which the actors were terrible, and the writing was horrid. One which you never want to see turned into a movie.

This December’s script is one which seems to come from a movie. It seems to have come from some apocalyptic movie written by a Stephen King or a Margaret Atwood. A horror movie turned into a real life situation. A mini “Captain Tripps” which is much, much worse than it had to be. It’s much, much worse than it should have been. It’s an unbelievable event that should have been believed. It’s a tornado which the leaders called a gentle wind. It’s a nasty, dark gray storm cloud, that they said would just “blow over” It was a real boogey man, that they said would just disappear one day. Instead, it crawled up under our bed, and it’s just waiting there for us to put one foot down so it can grab us. It’s the stuff of your childhood nightmares that became a real life tragedy. You know. We all know.

This December is cold and dark already. The sun’s gone down and my feet are already cold. The trees in the woods out back are just a shadow in the distance. I stepped outside and could hear the coyotes howling in the distance….not distant enough though. They are pretty close by. Thank God they aren’t wolves. When the wolves start moving in, I’ll know for sure I’m living in some writer’s worst nightmare. “Don’t go out your back door, the wolves are near by.” Damn, they may be!

“I spent a long time thinking, about the ones the wolves pulled down” (Garth Brooks….by Stephanie Davis)

I look down that long and angry, angry winding and curvy, dusty and dirty, gritty road. I can smell that putrid dust that fills the air and I know that I’m walking now. My car wore out, and my tennis shoes fell off of my feet after the first thousand miles, and there are blisters on my toes from the hot, red clay dirt…unpaved since the day this all started.

I know my writing is as disjointed as my brain this day. My brain is as disjointed as my jangling limbs. It’s December, and when I was a kid, the only thing that made December a bearable month, was the joy it represented and which we celebrated. It made the days bearable. It made the dark nights seem shorter. It made the dawn brighter, and the day sky bluer. It made me less crazy. Now, I think I am just crazy. Tired and crazy. Anxious and crazy. Ignorant and crazy. Unbelieving and crazy.

I feel like we are all walking in the deepest dark, and I hope Isiah was right when he said “The people who walk in darkness will see a great light. For those who live in a land of deep darkness a light will shine”

I know who he was speaking of, and I can pray that it will pertain to us, even now…even in these times.

From 2013- The Weight of our Soul….

I was reading the other day about how a kindle which is full of information weighs just a thousands of an ounce more than a new one. I also read where the same computer hard drive full of information weighs a thousands of an ounce more than a new one. Been tested, it’s a fact. Therefore you could assume that even virtual information has weight. Surprising, right?

I wonder if our brains weigh more, the smarter we are? I don’t think it works the same with humans. They say Einstein’s brain was kind of small weight wise as compared to a normal brain, yet he was a genius. One thing I believe though, is that there is weight to the spark of life which makes us human. That “soul” which resides within us, which dictates to us all our living days what we do. That spark weighs so little it’s probably just a thousands of an ounce or maybe less. Buy oh, it’s the heaviest light weight thing in creation.

I have witnessed the death of both my parents. My Dad was still warm when I got to him, and I was holding my Mom’s hand when she took her last breath. And when they took them away although they were dead weight, they were like the thinnest tissue paper in looks. My Dad was always like a little hard rock up til the day he died, but he was shrunk down like a shriveled little sponge after he lost that tiny little bit of weight they call the spirit.

I don’t know the weight of the spark of life, but I have seen its impact. It’s a big one. Better to get done what you need to get done before it’s gone. All the forgiving, the loving, the words you need to say or write. All the singing, the dancing, the hugging, the kisses. All the things you are putting off until a better time…there is no better time. When you lose THAT little bit of weight, well there is no more time.

I dreamed about going fishing up at the Dam in Trion last night. The water was running fast over the top of the dam, and there were dozens of people in the water pulling in bass, and crappie. My Dad and Uncle Pink were there, and they were laughing and joking with each other as they pulled one after another big crappie in, and strung them up. I can’t remember who the other people standing out in the water fishing were. Nobody was standing on the shore. Everyone had their waders on, or their pants legs rolled up and they were standing anywhere from knee deep to waist deep in the cold Chattooga river.

That particular place, that old dam….has almost a mystical or magical hold on me. Anytime I have ever gone there, as a kid and even up to the year we moved from Trion….I have felt almost a reverence when I have stood at that spot. I have felt the spirits of the Cherokee who once fished the eels and sturgeon out of these waters, and have even felt the touch of those prehistoric people who proceeded them in this area. Those people whose mark you can see over at Russell Cave in Alabama. Thousands of years worth of people walked the banks of that old river. Perhaps their souls are still there.

Who knows, perhaps the dream I had last night was a glimpse of the afterlife. God knows, I certainly wouldn’t mind it. If I woke up after I pass away and I can roll up my breeches legs on my pants and wade out into that cold water in between Daddy and Uncle Pink, and start casting that old yeller’ lead head out into the foamy water and starting reeling those crappie in, I think I’d just shout hallelujah.

The year was 1954, and it was the first time I can remember being at the “O’ Zion” Baptist Church in Blue Ridge Georgia. I remember it for a couple of reasons.

First of all, I had apparently at that young age already admired my Grandfather’s ability to get up and wave his hands around while people sang. I had no concept really of what a song leader was. I may have even thought that people wouldn’t sing at all unless Grandpa waved his hands around. It was the magic of the waving of the hands which caused the singing. I wanted to be magic too. I don’t remember whether or not I asked permission to do it, but I do remember being up behind the pulpit in front of the choir with Grandpa and “magically” waving around my hands. People were singing for sure, but they were all also smiling. I didn’t know they were smiling at me. I just knew they were happy and I thought it was the magic of the waving hands that was making it so.

Throughout all the years I continued to visit that church during my trips to visit my Grandparents, there would always be someone I would meet out on the street in town, or at the lake, or at the church who would inevitably tell the story about how tickled they were at the little four year old boy who helped his Grandpa lead the music. At first I was a little bit embarrassed about it, but as the “legend” grew it kind of bolstered my confidence in my musical abilities a little to hear how well I sang that day. It was one of the things which kept me singing over the years, and led to me being a soloist, songwriter and the lover of music that I am. Without the positive reinforcement of these wonderful “country” people I might have gone with my natural tendency to shyness and never have been able to perform in front of a crowd. I really thank them for their kindness and generosity.

The other thing that came to mind during the recent service was the way which the prayer used to be conducted at O’ Zion as they called it.
In an “Old Country” Church, anytime anyone prays; everyone prays. If a preacher starts the prayer, it’s not long until all the other people join in praying out loud, each offering up their own separate praises, requests, and wishes to their creator.

When I was little I thought this cacophony was pure noise. But as I go older, it started to take on a different quality. After a minute or two of listening, all of the voices began to blend together into one. There was no longer the ability to pick out one single voice and listen to it, it was impossible.

However, far from being just noise the prayers started to take on a quality of purity and holiness that I have not often felt since. They were almost musical and lyrical in their quality and there was a cadence to them that spoke of a sincerity it is hard to find in today’s world. You knew that God was hearing this and that he could understand each and every one of these simultaneous pleadings. As the prayers began to stop one by one as the individuals finished their contrition’s, it got to the point where it would come down to three, two and then finally just one voice, the voice of the preacher who would always be the one to begin and end the prayers. It was almost miraculous how they stopped. Never, ever all at once, but in an orderly fashion perhaps in the order of the importance of what they had to say or to ask of God.

I sometimes felt like a wind was moving through that Church. Even during the heat of August you could feel it and it was cooling and comforting. During December it would warm the body and cause the soul to glow with love. Some would call it the Holy Spirit. I won’t dispute their word on that. I don’t know if Churches anywhere still pray that way today. I think sometimes people may think it’s rude to pray out loud at the same time as another person. I don’t think it’s rude at all. It sort of just makes sense because then it’s not just a bunch of individuals weakly projecting their unheard mental thoughts towards the heavens, but a bunch of strong worshipers openly telling God their needs.

It makes a difference.

I know it does.