WYSIWYG -- Keeping it Real

Remembering Charles

2011-12-08T07:51:00.001-06:00

He is still very much with us. His verbiage, gestures and facial expressions are as much a part of us as they were of him. He was gregarious, gracious and generous -- giving me the most precious gift, other than salvation through Jesus the Christ, I have ever received --- my Sweet Pea. And he gave of himself to others -- while teaching social studies, fulfilling assistant principal duties, doing music ministry at the same church for 35 years, giving to others in need (even those who later bit the hand with which he had literally fed them), and even while in "rehab" at Memorial Hermann TIRR, ministering to and encouraging others.

I remember speaking of Charles to my good friend and mentor to a point where I apologized for "going on and on," to which he replied "why are you apologizing? It is a good thing that he is remembered. Think of all the people who aren't!" And so, on this his birthday, I still remember this amazing man, who remained my good friend until he departed this life. Happy birthday, Charles.E. Richards, II. Even while we miss you, we are happy for you.

A New Christmas Tradition

2011-11-07T08:44:00.000-06:00

Note: I previously posted this on Facebook after receiving it via email. After seeing my first 2011 Christmas commercial on network television yesterday evening, and receiving my first "Black Friday" ad via email this morning, I decided to post it here. It is not my writing and I have not edited it in any way. It is worth repeating and worth sharing, but that's just my opinion; you may think otherwise. Here it is:

Christmas 2011 -- Birth of a New Tradition
As the holidays approach, the giant Asian factories are kicking into high gear to provide Americans with monstrous piles of cheaply produced goods -- merchandise that has been produced at the expense of American labor.

This year will be different. This year Americans will give the gift of genuine concern for other Americans. There is no longer an excuse that, at gift giving time, nothing can be found that is produced by American hands.

Yes there is!

It's time to think outside the box, people. Who says a gift needs to fit in a shirt box, wrapped in Chinese produced wrapping paper?

Everyone -- yes EVERYONE gets their hair cut. How about gift certificates from your local American hair salon or barber? Gym membership? It's appropriate for all ages who are thinking about some health improvement. Who wouldn't appreciate getting their car detailed? Small, American owned detail shops and car washes would love to sell you a gift certificate or a book of gift certificates..

Are you one of those extravagant givers who think nothing of plonking down the Benjamins on a Chinese made flat-screen?

Perhaps that grateful gift receiver would like his driveway sealed, or lawn mowed for the summer, or driveway plowed all winter, or games at the local golf course.

There are a bazillion owner-run restaurants -- all offering gift certificates. And, if your intended isn't the fancy eatery sort, what about a half dozen breakfasts at the local breakfast joint.

Remember, folks this isn't about big National chains -- this is about supporting your home town Americans with their financial lives on the line to keep their doors open.
How many people couldn't use an oil change for their car, truck or motorcycle, done at a shop run by the American working guy?

Thinking about a heartfelt gift for mom? Mom would LOVE the services of a local cleaning lady for a day.

My computer could use a tune-up, and I KNOW I can find some young guy who is struggling to get his repair business up and running.

OK, you were looking for something more personal. Local crafts people spin their own wool and knit them into scarves. They make jewelry, and pottery and beautiful wooden boxes.

Plan your holiday outings at local, owner operated restaurants and leave your server a nice tip. And, how about going out to see a play or ballet at your hometown theatre.
Musicians need love too, so find a venue showcasing local bands.

Honestly, people, do you REALLY need to buy another ten thousand Chinese lights for the house? When you buy a five dollar string of light, about fifty cents stays in the community. If you have those kinds of bucks to burn, leave the mailman, trash guy or babysitter a nice BIG tip.

You see, Christmas is no longer about draining American pockets so that China can build another glittering city. Christmas is now about caring about US, encouraging American small businesses to keep plugging away to follow their dreams. And, when we care about other Americans, we care about our communities, and the benefits come back to us in ways we couldn't imagine.

THIS is the new American Christmas tradition.

Coming Out of the Closet: What Does This Mean?

2011-06-15T19:07:00.000-05:00

Recently I was queried about the meaning of this blog. Why do you call it that?

This writer would like to think that folks have different perspectives of the same verbiage. Perhaps this is a mistake; so here is the short version (yes, I can do short) of why my blog is entitled Coming Out of the Closet -- Keeping it Real.

During the 2008 campaign preceding the general election, there was a keen awareness of the racially charged atmosphere regarding the man who was eventually elected POTUS. When the opposing party's presidential candidate chose a person who spewed more thinly veiled hatred and vitriol, and further who reminded me of several incompetent and incapable persons under whom I worked in my early adult years, I started writing. Writing is a therapeutic way of throwing punches and strategically placed kicks to knock one's foe out and remain a free woman. Publishing on the web is akin to throwing open one's windows and shouting, in this case, I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore.

Because my friends are a diverse mix of races, cultures, political persuasions, and sexual orientations, I often keep my personal philosophies and political opinions to myself. So --- Coming Out of the Closet is my way of baring parts of myself that heretofore have been secreted away; Keeping it Real is just that: my truth -- not THE truth necessarily -- but truth as I see it.

So there: I am out of the closet, and I what write and publish in this blog is the real stuff that comes from my heart and mind.

What to Do After a Wreck

2011-06-12T23:31:00.001-05:00

I. PREFACE

A. Do You Know What it Is like to Wear Many Hats?

For most, our lives are an entanglement of titles, roles, labels, tasks, obligations and responsibilities, each of which command some modicum of our time and attention. For most who work, there is but one job; sometimes two; rarer, but still a reality, sometimes more. This writer does not have a job per se. She works in the confines of her office, the first floor of her town home, doing any number of things: sometimes editing, researching or writing for lawyers; sometimes preparing to make presentations about Medicare and other senior issues; sometimes helping contentious folks wade through and resolve their conflicts; sometimes restoring a damaged computer, the victim of a virus; sometimes teaching a class to process servers (or wannabes); sometimes helping folks insure their property. The list could go on, but probably should have been stopped a sometime or two ago. The point is this: Andrea wears LOTS of hats. Keep this in mind as she continues.

B. Which Hat to Wear?

In the process of getting dressed, do you sometimes contemplate which hat is the right hat? If rain is forecast, perhaps something water proof would be the way to go; or if it’s cold, a nice wool felt would be better. And if you’re playing tennis, a cap or visor. Would a woman wear a baseball cap for worship, or one of those meaningless froo-froo things I saw last week at a sorority tea be a better choice? In other words, wear the hat that suits the purpose, conditions and occasion. Remember this also.

C. Writing Can Be Wonderfully Rewarding and Wonderfully Wearying – Simultaneously

This writer will never be an Ayn Rand or an Alex Hailey, or a Robert Ludlum. Still, this writer finds it therapeutic to record her thoughts, draining though the activity is. Writing is a little like labor. Every complete thought that is developed is a contraction. The closer the contractions come together, the more intense the labor, and, the closer to the reward, a baby, a new life, a completed work. Whether writing for a lawyer, a preacher, a teacher, or this little blog, writing is labor. Yep – keep this in mind.

D. So, What if You Don the Wrong Hat?

Well, if it’s raining and one is sporting a nice wool fedora, things will probably not be as one would want. Similarly, if writing, say, a motion for summary judgment for a breach of contract lawsuit, one would not go tipping around research for a trial in probate court. Not on point. So, what if the subject is – well, sensational, controversial, offensive, egregious, shameful, disgraceful to a family of faith, and – well — you get the picture. And the answer is: well, it depends.

E. One More Thing

A little more than a quarter century ago (yesterday for me, ancient history for some), a young woman had a business alliance with a man of the cloth. They marketed their services and products to churches. One day, the man suggested to the woman that they engage in certain acts, to which the woman replied, You know we can’t do anything like that; we’re not married, to which the man responded, It’s okay; we’re under grace. The woman stood her ground. Nothing happened. Some time later, the woman suffered food poisoning after visiting the wrong Chinese buffet. Bedridden, it was all she could do to make her way to the porcelain god, to which she gave up offerings frequently. Her best friend was with her. When that man came, saying that he would sit with the woman for a while, the best friend left to do errands. When they were alone, the man proceeded to do to the woman what she previously refused. She was so weak, she could not protect herself or stop him. When finished, the man said You act like you didn’t like it.

The woman never told anyone. She assumed no one would believe her accusations against this well-known and highly regarded man of the cloth.

By now you’re asking What does that have to do with anything? Well, bear with me; this is not easy; it is labor.

II. INTRODUCTION

After viewing an excerpt from a video, apparently a sermon by a nationally known (if not internationally known, but what’s a few hundred million more people, or a billion or two?) pastor, I confess my knee-jerk reaction was to delve into the mess. I knew nothing of the details of the underlying sordid mess, the accusations of four (I believe that is the number) young men against another widely known pastor. In fact, when the news first surfaced months ago, I refused to devote any brain cells to the story. I ignored broadcast news, internet news, Facebook comments and Twitter Tweets. And I refused to discuss it, even after one person made several attempts, all unsuccessful, to draw me into dialogue. Nope. Not me. I’m not going there. And suddenly, here I am on a lazy Saturday afternoon, recovering from a wonderful morning, first with my mom, The Boss, then with former church members (at a visitation for one who has graduated to a better life), then a group of my Fabulous Family of God at South Main Baptist, then with my Sweet Pea, and I view this video – a lame attempt to analogize the alleged abuse of youths at the hands of a spiritual and community leader as a wreck – and I am now hot to trot.

Off I go, donning my paralegal hat, pumped as if preparing for a trial. Newspapers. Yahoo. Binging. Googling. Trying to get the gist of what happened (as if I could via the Internet) – and then the light came on:

Me: Wait a minute! What are you doing? What - do - you - THINK - you - are - doing?

Me: I dunno.

Me. Well, if you DUNNO, just stop it! Take that silly hat off!

Me: Oh, I have on the WRONG hat??? Sorry :(

Me: Well, you should be. Just stop, dang-it!

III. THE RIGHT HAT

For this, there is no right hat. However, there is a right posture – that of standing naked before God. He knows each of us in more detail than any of us want to be known. Before you stop reading because I’m not jumping on the bandwagon to hang the other pastor in effigy (alongside the one who perpetrated the mess in the first place), stay with me a little while longer. I must first remind myself that I am not the one to cast judgment. Frankly, I’m too busy trying to keep my own closet door shut. Just because the title of my blog is “Coming Out of the Closet – Keeping it Real,” does not mean I intend to leave the closet door open.

IV. IT’S NOT JUST ABOUT THE WRECK

This is not to judge either of these fellas – the one who, according to the other, had a wreck – or the other, with all of his education and eloquence, could not do anything better than chide folks: I can't believe that people would leave their preacher because he had a wreck. It is a problem that EL had a wreck. The even bigger problem is what happened after the wreck.

A. David Had a Wreck

You remember that Bible story – how David took Bathsheba, the wife of his faithful soldier, Uriah? How David had Uriah positioned in battled to assure he would be killed? How Nathan had to tell David about his hit-and-run? Yes. David had a wreck. And when Nathan confronted David about his wreck, what did he do? Did he put on his royal robes and crown and sit on his throne? No. He prostrated himself before God and confessed:

Psalm 51:1-13 (KJV)-------------------------------

Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy lovingkindness: according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions.

Wash me throughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin.

For I acknowledge my transgressions: and my sin is ever before me.

Against thee, thee only, have I sinned, and done this evil in thy sight: that thou mightest be justified when thou speakest, and be clear when thou judgest.

Behold, I was shapen in iniquity; and in sin did my mother conceive me.

Behold, thou desirest truth in the inward parts: and in the hidden part thou shalt make me to know wisdom.

Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean: wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.

Make me to hear joy and gladness; that the bones which thou hast broken may rejoice.

Hide thy face from my sins, and blot out all mine iniquities.

Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me.

Cast me not away from thy presence; and take not thy holy spirit from me.

Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation; and uphold me with thy free spirit.

Then will I teach transgressors thy ways; and sinners shall be converted unto thee.

B. But That Was Way Back in Bible Days.

So, you need something more contemporary? How about this:

A requirement of one of my seminary courses was to read a book that was based on the true, twentieth-century story of a well-known man who was much sought after, and actively engaged in speaking and teaching all of the country. When his obsession with pornography was revealed, he confessed his wrongdoing to his wife, discontinued all public appearances, and sought counseling. It was recognized that this man had some healing to do, personally, spiritually and in his relationships. Notice that relationships is plural. He not only hurt himself and his wife, but his children, other family members, friends, colleagues, fellow members of the clergy, and let us not forget his God. There is no “Band-aid” for this kind of rift. The process for him to return to “public” life was a couple of years, not a couple of days or weeks.

C. Was There a Wreck?

Well, according to CD, is friend HAD A WRECK. A logical deduction is that his friend, EL, fell off the straight and narrow path and into a ditch. Without belaboring the nasty details, CD sounded as if he was speaking of EL’s guilt – culpability – liability – whatever the heck else one might label it. Now, folks, we all have committed acts, or left something undone, that provoked most justly God’s wrath and indignation against us. All of us have had wrecks. Sometimes we caused them, and sometimes we were in the wrong place at the wrong time. (See paragraph I.E, “One More Thing” above.) And sometimes both parties were at fault, but let us not digress to issues of contributory negligence. For purposes of this now-too-long note (sorry, it’s the preacher in me), let us just say that EL caused the wreck.

D. So, What Should Happen after EL‘s Wreck?

There must be an assessment of damages. If EL had a wreck, something is misaligned, crumpled, dented, chipped, cracked, smashed or otherwise not as it should be. He needs to be restored to serviceable condition. He needs to be put back where he belongs. And when one causes a wreck, one must pay the deductible. That might set EL back a few months — or years. Even though he settled with his complainants in mediation and paid some damages, those damages were paid to the complainant. He still has to deal with his own damages – and pay the deductible. Yes, as all other believers, EL has insurance, and the premiums may have been paid by Jesus the Christ, but just as EL would most likely counsel one of his congregation to take some time off – for healing and restoration – EL should do likewise – and more. That is paying the deductible.

E. If the Bus Is “Broke Down” from a Wreck, Hail a Taxi

CD chides folks who “left their preacher” because he had a wreck. Has CD considered that folks would rather not trust a damaged vehicle? Now, we all have our issues, but we still have to be able to function in our assignments. How can a shepherd function in his assignment if he has been abusing the sheep?

Recently, at the window of a drive-thru, I became frustrated when I made a simple inquiry:

Q. What kind of orange juice do you have?
A. Orange.
Q. Well, who makes it?
A. Is orange juice.
Q. Well, what brand is it?
A. Orange.

There was an obvious inability to articulate the answer to my query in English. In my frustration I backed out of the drive-thru lane, and thinking I had cleared the curb, threw the car in “drive” and proceeded forward, only to go over the curb. Well, I had a wreck. I rigged the bumper with two very long cable ties and went home. However, the very next morning, I was at Apollo Paint & Body (http://www.apollopaintandbody.com [these are simply the nicest auto service folks I have ever encountered]) to have the damage appraised and repaired. Sure, I could have left the bumper dangling from the cable ties, but the vehicle would not be restored to how it was before the wreck – nor would it have been in better condition. In fact, over time, with driving the uneven streets of Houston, the damage to the bumper would have worsened.

So, I would ask CD: If you were riding in EL’s vehicle and he had a wreck, sustaining significant damage to the body, frame, tires, wheels, windows and steering wheel, would you jump back in the car and continue riding that road with EL, or would you hail a taxi? Or catch a bus? Or call someone else with a car? Or hitchhike?

V. MEDIATION MAY BE A WIN-WIN, BUT IT CAN CAST A CLOUD OF SERIOUS DOUBT

The dreaded “L” word. Everyone wants to sue somebody. What makes them come forward? Is it about justice? Equity? Greed? Revenge? Just asking. Why now did these young men come forward? Why did EL swear to fight the lawsuit and then settle at mediation? Was he speaking from a perceived position of strength when he vowed to fight? Why did he change his mind?

Even though my specialty is civil trial law, I believe that most lawsuits should never have been filed in the first place. I am very fond of mediation, though it has devolved to a good-old-boy cottage industry and mediators like me rarely get appointed to mediate lawsuits, unless, of course, one of their good-old boys is a judge or lawyer. They toss some wet-noodle (I really want to say “limp-#!#?” but that would not be appropriate) notion about non-lawyers not being well-versed in legal issues and theories. Tell that to the lawyers for whom I write! What hogwash! Okay, I’ve said it; I dare you to prove me wrong. [rant paused to continue this note].

The deal is this with mediation: the Plaintiffs go in speculating about what they’re going to walk away with, as if they deserve something simply because they filed the suit, and the Defendants (at least the ones who know they are liable – they’ve caused a wreck) go in with the intent of giving up only what is absolutely necessary to make the Plaintiffs go away. There is persuasion on each side, especially for volatile subject matter as the instant case. There's not supposed to be persuasion per se, but just trust me on that. And there is the airing of dirty (vile, filthy, whatever you want to say here) laundry, some of which is probably so befouled it should be taken out a burned – despite any imposed burn bans due to drought.

For the culpable defendant, it comes down to which will hurt worse: settling now or the risk of losing at trial? Is it less painful for CD to toss a perception of his friend’s liability to the world, while his friend pays off his accusers? Does the world, then, assume that EL was in the wrong?

VI. ABOVE THE LAW?

Sometimes folks think they can do whatever they want; they are beyond rules and above the law. Or, worse, no one would dare accuse me! Right. Tell that to John Edwards. Jim & Tammy Bakker. Arnold Schwartzenegger. Jimmy Swaggert. Bill Clinton. Tiger Woods and lots of other folks. Tell that to the guy in paragraph I-E above. Just because he got by in this life does not mean he will get away with it in the next. Perhaps he will make it to one of the many rooms in the Savior’s mansion, but rather than an upgrade he will be relegated to the basement. That simply is not our call.

But, come on, Pastors, yes, we fall down and we get up. But while we’re down we get dirty. Sometimes we tear (or lose) our pants, scrape our knees, break a leg, sprain an ankle, bump our heads, get a concussion. Sometimes we need a little Neosporin and one of those cool Band-Aids that, if you’re a member of the paler nation, blends right into your skin and can barely be detected. Sometimes we just need to run to one of those 24-hour emergency centers and get our ankle wrapped. And sometimes we need major surgery, a couple of months at TIRR (a great place), and then outpatient rehabilitation before returning to work PART-TIME.

VII. THERE IS BUT ONE GOD

Having a wreck is something to which we are all susceptible. What matters is what we do after the wreck. Do we pretend that all is well? As if we are not injured? Or damaged? After a wreck should one ascend the throne of his pulpit as if he is Almighty God, Father of our Lord, Jesus the Christ, Maker of all things and Judge of all men??? I think not. There is but one God. When one assumes the posture of unblemished perfection by not tending to one’s wounds and repairing the damage one sustains in a wreck, the message one sends is “There is absolutely nothing wrong with me.” While folks should not try to assess the damage – that is between the wrecker and his Maker – folks should avoid the damaged vehicle until it is back where it belongs – or better.

14 June 1998

2011-06-06T19:58:00.000-05:00

Today is 6 June 2011. The title of this little piece --- 13 years ago --- is the date on a letter written to the person who is still, unfortunately, supposed to be my Congressional representative. I just happened on this little letter when I was doing a search of archives for stuff related to Sarcoidosis. It is galling, even 13 years later, that no response was ever received to this little note. Here it is, unedited:

Dear Congresswoman Lee:

About six months ago I completed and returned to your office a form to facilitate your assistance with my obtaining disability benefits from Social Security. Since then, I have had a hearing before an administrative judge (in mid-March). Around that time someone from your office called me (according to my caller ID device), but left no message. When I attempted to ascertain who it may have been, I believe I was given the name of Ms. Hubbard in your Acres Home office. The one time she spoke with me she informed me that I was not on the voter registration rolls. This happens not to be true, as I am listed on the voter registration rolls as Andrea Hoxie Richards, which was my name before I married in 1996. Not only am I a registered voter, but I seldom miss fulfilling my duty to vote. Still, this should mean nothing as my residence is in your district, and I am therefore one of your constituents and entitled to request your assistance. As of the writing of this letter I have heard nothing from your office, even after I spoke with one of your former employees who advised me that she sent Ms. Hubbard e-mail asking her to contact me regarding my request for your assistance.

Recently I received an unfavorable decision from Administrative Law Judge Clifford A. Leinberger, a very coarse, crude and intimidating (or so he attempted to be) man. According to Judge Leinberger, I have never been disabled over the past two years – even when I could not do anything at all for myself – when my husband had to literally take me out of bed and into the bathroom – when I could not walk because my feet were three times their normal size – when I had insufficient stamina to raise a brush to my hair.

I cannot help but wonder what kind of system we have when I have worked all of my adult life and have had my earnings literally taken away from me to contribute to a system that seems to support everyone except the people who support it – and have no representation besides.

Perhaps now, folks who read this will understand (1) the gagging noise I make when I hear the Congresswoman's name; (2) why I had to fight the temptation to overrun her in my Jeep as she stood in the middle of Pannell Street, across from Pleasant Hill Baptist Church, on the evening of African Warrior Bud Johnson's wake (I miss sparring with Bud); and (3) why I pray fervently for some competent person to run against her and for folks to take their heads out of the sand (or wherever they are) and vote against her. Of course, she has been busy: stumping for the late Robert Byrd (God rest his soul), canonizing Michael Jackson (God rest his soul as well), and schmoozing President Obama after backing Mrs. Clinton.

On this subject, I believe I have said enough.

Evocations: Random Thoughts From Daryl's Robinson's Senior Recital

2011-05-14T00:21:00.000-05:00

DO YOU LIKE WINE?

I do, even though I know very little about wines: the varieties and origins of grapes, which ones are right for which foods (other than the basic white for chicken and fish and red for beef -- after that I'm lost), which ones come in contact with the grape skins longer (other than this seems to be a trait of the really dark reds), and other bits of minutiae of which genuine wine aficionados make subjects of serious conversations, blogs, newsletters, magazine articles, and perhaps even a livelihood or two -- or more. I drink red wine occasionally because my doctor suggested it is beneficial for my health; however, I really don't care for red wine, at least not the ones I have purchased so far. Still, I drink it for the purpose heretofore stated. What I do like are Riesling and Gewurtztraminer. They are light and sweet, and feel heavenly going down. Unfortunately, I rarely enjoy either, since I save most of my imbibing moments for the medicinal crap of the red once or twice a week -- and turning into a wino or a lush is not on my to-do list. The bottom line is if I like the taste, nothing else matters -- whether the wine is a Burgundy or Beaujolais, Grenache or Gewurtztraminer, 1927 or 2007. When it comes to wine, two things matter to this writer: 1) The taste; and 2) Its effect when trickling over her taste buds and down her esophagus. What else matters -- or should matter? To her, nothing; it's just wine.

DO YOU LIKE VISUAL ART?

I suppose I do. Well – yes. Asking about styles would be a waste. Whether the small, thin brush strokes of Monet’s impressionism, the molten-like movement of Dali’s surrealistic clocks, the over-analyzed smile of da Vinci’s Renaissance icon – Mona Lisa, the outlandish non-art pop art of Andy Warhol, or the three-dimensional wonders and wackiness of the Cullen Sculpture Garden at the Museum of Fine Arts Houston, visual art for this writer is simple: 1) she examines it; 2) messages, filtered as they go, are sent to her brain; 3) a verdict is rendered. As to the verdict, there are three possibilities: 1) Like it; 2) Hate it; 3) No comment. Visual art. Simple.

Digressing for just a moment: Even as this is written, however, the writer has a special fondness for John Palmer’s art that transcends her usual mundane, pedestrian attitude toward this type of creativity. Mr. Palmer’s works are charged with a special energy that incites and excites the writer in a peculiar way. Not until John Palmer has this writer ever aspired to own an original work of visual art. And the John Palmer effect is a great lead into a favorite of favorites –

DO YOU LIKE MUSIC?

I do. I more than like music. I love music. After Jesus, music is God’s all-time greatest gift. It is a medium that breaks down barriers, soothes the soul in so many states of dis-ease, disarray and despair, and brings people together even when languages may keep them apart. Music has texture, meaning, eroticism, message, expression, connotation, denotation, mood, structure, fluidity, sanctity and more.

While my fondness of the grape and the visual arts are limited, my love for music is beyond – what? Well, beyond. And my affinity for various music styles touches many points on the spectrum. Favorites can be found among most except rap and heavy metal, which, to this writer, are neither musical nor artistic, but rather bastardizing throwbacks to some dark hole of uncivilization.

There are forms of music, and genres of music within forms. The music world is kind of like God's creation subjected to taxonomic ranks – class, order, family, genus and species. In the music realm folks toss around labels like gospel, sacred, classical, jazz and pop, which are very broad categories – families – within which are genera, and species.

Recently a young man was heard saying, in effect, that everything that could be done in music had already been accomplished. Heresy! Sacrilege! What the young man failed to realize is that the dead end he envisions as music is indicative of his limited imagination. The saving grace is that since our thoughts differ, as do our inhibitions (or lack thereof), our self-imposed limits are the only obstacles that keep music, and most other things, from expanding in scope and creativity.

The good thing is that even if our abilities to compose, arrange and perform music are limited to certain instruments and styles, our listening ears and minds allow us to appreciate stuff far beyond our abilities. As a classically trained pianist who learned to compose within certain parameters, I often debate myself when a creative stroke takes me outside the box of those “rules for writing music with proper structure.” Boo – hiss. The galling thing is when I hear beyond-the-barriers music fraught with exquisite dissonance and think “hmpf – that’s really great,” I also wonder, "now -- why can't I do that?" And since the breadth of my pianistic abilities was restricted by inadequate rehabilitation of broken bones and mangled muscles after a near-fatal car crash, this writer has learned to be content with her performance limitations, and yet find much joy in experiencing the gifts of others, like Daryl Robinson at his senior recital.

Daryl has been a subject of more than one blog on this site. This old woman is simply taken with this talented young man who is a personable as he is polished and professional. The music Daryl played was the stuff of professionals, not a student trying to fulfill requirements for an undergraduate degree. Daryl’s program was a mix of styles, influencing evocations of such broad extremes as to send one on an emotional overload. Aside from the mesmerizing conglomeration of sounds that made one think either 1) there is really an orchestra up there; or 2) Daryl evidently has four hands and four feet, this is how Daryl’s music touched my soul (not necessarily in this order):

Image: The betrayal, humiliation, trial, suffering, mockery, crucifixion, death, burial and resurrection of Jesus, the Christ. Since this imagery has been treated in great detail in a previous, but recent writing, nothing more will be said here, other than it was so powerful that this writer’s body actually shuddered with sorrow -- then joy.

Image: A glade, a clearing in a wooded area with a quiet running stream of water. A “no worries” place of calm, peace and rest. A safe place. A place near the heart of God. Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. . . . Blessed assurance. It is well with my soul. I am content.

Image: I have wings. And I can fly. I am standing on that new-fangled skywalk at the Grand Canyon -- you know the one -- with the transparent floor. I levitate upward, and take off, soaring through the canyon. Wow!

Image: A quite moment between a wife who entreats her husband. The two, despite a rift between them, are destined to be together – forever:

What I want to do with you
Is picnic in the park
I'll pack a basket of your favorite treats
Lots for you to eat
The finest, freshest, sweetest
Most luscious fruit you could ever have
A pair of firm, ripe, sweet melons
With the tartest, tastiest stems
Waiting for your lips
The biggest, blackest sweetest cherry
(It's juices ooze unceasingly at first bite)
Nestled in a pair large warm buns
Waiting for your hands
To test their freshness,
Served on a bed of fresh cut grass
In the deepest recesses of my garden
A more fitting place to feast than a park
A place where you can go
Cast away all care
A place where the two of us
Our thirsts can quench, desires fulfill
Our love share
A place where no one else can
Come between our souls,
Nor invade our minds
Or untangle our beings
A place where I'll belong to you always.
So open the gate of my garden
And take a stroll once more
No thought of unpleasant happenings
Of times gone on before
Since you left my garden
I've kept it just for you
So come back to take what's yours
None else can have it -- just you

HAVE YOU GONE MAD?

I think not. This writing is merely a picture of the gift one received in the presence of a brilliant organist while at his best, doing what he loves.

Mr. Robinson offered in 60 minutes, works that, despite spanning scores and scores and scores of years, many would lump into one class of music: classical. Forget the family, genera and species – just classical. Few would go beyond that, just as this writer does not distinguish the grapes for Beaujolais from the grapes for Bordeaux. Again, few would go beyond classical, just as this writer, while being able to distinguish between Monet and da Vinci, has an appreciation for both but is not thrilled by either. That is why wine does it for some and visual art does it for others. John Palmer excepting -- his stuff is electric.

And that is why music does it for me. It is the absolutely finest drug and has no harmful side effects. It is a great therapist and is not limited to a 50-minute hour (“50" is not a typo -- 50 minutes equals one hour of therapy). It is an ever-extending bridge between the gap of strained relationships. It is a fine way to connect with the Almighty. And Daryl Robinson is a masterful deliverer of the drug, the bridge and a way to Him who sits on the throne. Sometimes, when a word of prayer cannot be uttered, a melody can be hummed. Sometimes when thoughts are so muddled, one cannot be concisely framed, but a passage of music will serve to re-center and refocus. And sometimes, when the mind is gone, music can bring it back, if just for a while, and with it, much joy.

God bless Daryl, a magical, masterful, music maker. Be in his hands, his feet and his heart. Always. Amen.

Recovering From Worship???

2011-04-22T20:10:00.000-05:00

Today is Good Friday. For Believers we’re talking about something super special – the day we commemorate the passion and crucifixion of our Lord and Savior. But, first, let’s back up to yesterday – Maundy Thursday – the day Believers commemorate the last supper.

This writer cares not for the technobabble about how the dates for Holy Week and Resurrection Day change from one year to the next, just as this writer gives no thought to December 25 not being the Savior’s birthday. None of these issues negate the beliefs of those of my ilk: that He was born of an immaculate conception, He walked the earth, He suffered and died, and He was resurrected. What is of significance that we remember. In fact whenever we worship, we should be reminded. So, how does that work? Well, let’s talk about it.

Back to yesterday, Maundy Thursday. It was a typical April day in Houston, Texas, in a word, hot. It is the time of year when my beloved sun because one of my worst enemies, causing the manifestation of Sarcoidosis-related issues – like not being able to breathe, reddening and blistering facial skin (not easy for this Chocolate Bunny, but it actually turns red), and a total draining of every bit of energy in my body. Yet, it is Holy Week. And despite the climate, Holy Week calls for daily treks to the Westmoreland Chapel on the campus South Main Baptist Church for worship at noon, and, if one is so inclined thereafter, a nice lunch served in the shade of our Chafin Educational Building (we have an absolutely awesome kitchen staff – okay – that’s a plug, but true).

The noon worship on Maundy Thursday focused on the text found in verses 53 through 65 of the 14th chapter of Mark, and Pastor Steve’s question: Who killed Jesus? (If one recalls Mel Gibson’s movie The Passion, one might also recall the clamor at that time about just that question: Who killed Jesus? One might also recall the close-up of various hands nailing Jesus to the cross, among them being the hands of Mr. Gibson.) And toward the end of the message, Pastor Steve began answering the question by calling the roll: Jews killed Jesus – not all Jews but Caiaphas and the chief priests, the teachers of the law, the Sanhedrin that were assembled that night – a kangaroo court in Caiaphas’s home; and the Romans – not all Romans but those who handed Him over to Pontius Pilot; and, theologically, God the Father, who sent His Son into the world for just this purpose; and Jesus, who allowed Himself to be killed. And, of course, there are more – many, many more: our sins killed Jesus. I killed Jesus. You killed Jesus. And so it goes, folks: we all had a hand in nailing Him to the tree. Wow. Folks who only want “feel-good” church would have left unfulfilled and very much disappointed rather than convicted – and convinced that the only way we will stop killing Jesus is to become more like Him.

The day of worship continued Maundy Thursday evening, with the most somber worship time of any at South Main – the Service of Shadows – the time when we reflect on the betrayal, arrest, desertion, trial, scourging, crucifixion and death of the Only Faultless One to ever walk the earth. Amidst voices pouring out words in haunting melodies and lush harmonies, words that salve and soothe one’s soul, our Ragan C. read from The Word, the scriptures that so vividly paint the picture that tells the story of how we all participated in nailing Him to the tree. By the end of worship, there is silence and darkness – how the world was left then after they/we had killed Him – and words fittingly descriptive, even today, of lives that are without His light. Wow.

And Holy Week continued today. Yet, another trek to the Westmoreland Chapel for noon worship, a Silent Service – an intentional, deliberate means of focusing the worshiper, once more, on the sacrifice of our Savior.

This service is comprised of a series of scriptures, each followed by a song played by our resident prodigy, organist Daryl Robinson. Daryl is a favorite of this writer. His musicianship is beyond comparison, going far beyond the mastery of his performance abilities, but technical knowledge as well. What had not been realized until today, was Daryl’s tremendous gift of marrying scripture to music. Thoughtfully choosing* familiar texts and melodies, as well as works that may not be known to many of us at all, Mr. Robinson took worshipers on a journey, from Christ’s condemnation, to the Via Dolorosa, to Golgotha, to the tomb. Complementing the words of the chosen music, were the music arrangements themselves, employing harmonies, progressions and nuances that added more texture and brilliance to the pictures the Scriptures and lyrics painted.

Feel the moment of condemnation, knowing that what lay ahead was even worse than what had already transpired:

Christ, who saves us by His cross,

And no sin committed

(J.S. Bach).

Feel the weight of the cross beneath a battered and emaciated body.

Must Jesus bear the cross alone

and all the world go free?

(George N. Allen/Thomas Shepherd).

See Simon of Cyrene carry the cross for Him.

Shun not suffering, shame, or loss;

learn of Christ to bear the cross.

(Richard Redhead/James Montgomery).

Feel the agony of the women who wailed for Jesus.
There is a balm in Gilead
to heal the sin sick soul
(Negro Spiritual).

Feel the nakedness of His body as the soldiers divided His clothing:

A purple robe, a crown of thorn,

a reed in His right hand,

Before the soldiers’ spite and scorn

I see my Savior stand.

(David Wilson/Timothy Dudley-Smith).

See the nails being driven into His hands and feet, but if like this writer, just try to avoid imagining the added pain they caused:

God, give us each our own death,

the dying that proeeds from each of our lives.

(Camil van Huise/Rilke)

Feel the darkness creeping into the world as He breathed His last breath:

Grim death, with cruel rigor,

hath robbed Thee of Thy life;

Thus Thou hast lost Thy vigor,

Thy strength in this sad strife

(Brahms/Bernard of Clairvaux).

See them take His body from the cross:

When I survey the wondrous cross

on which the Prince of glory died.

(Edward Miller/Isaac Watts).

See Joseph wrap Him in a linen cloth and lay Him in a tomb hewn out of rock:

Were you there when they laid Him in the tomb?

Oh! Sometimes it causes me to tremble.

(Negro Spiritual).

As worshipers left the chapel in silence, words and music remained alive. Just off the sidewalk, leaning against the accessible parking pillar under a tree (that must be older than any building on the campus), providing protective shade while God wrapped his arms around me in a light breeze that tempered the afternoon heat preventing pulmonary discomfort, the words and the music washed over me again, leaving images of the 24-hour period that began at noon on Maundy Thursday, and a thought: how awesome it is to live on this side of the resurrection, to be able to look back and see that whole picture. Kevin Sinclair, our minister to youth, spoke as he passed by, asking if he could be of assistance. Oh, I’m just recovering from worship. Sometimes it takes me a while. He gave me an understanding nod, and left me to continue me reverie.

Finally collecting myself, I drove away with another thought – a question: how does one recover from worship? In retrospect, that just seems odd. To recover – meaning to bring back or get back to normal – totally negates the purpose of worship. Quite often, a prayer in worship at South Main includes the plea that we be transformed so that we will be less of what we used to be and more of what we ought to be through Christ Jesus. And so, folks, recovering from worship is just not the desired thing to do. To leave worship the same as one came is to spend an hour (or two, or however many) going through some ritual, reading words, singing songs, joining in prayers, and listening to sermons, that are no more than water off a duck’s back. So why bother?

And so, rather than recover from worship, perhaps I should have told Kevin, I’m still renewing through worship:

Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is – his good, pleasing and perfect will. (Romans 12:2, NIV). Perhaps with a little more renewing and transforming, we would kill Jesus less often.

Out of the most agonizing time of the first century A.D. was born the grace we experience today. Because of that, even in silent worship, there are conviction and comfort; veil-lifting and vindication; peace and promise; enlightenment and edification, and hopefully, a desire for renewal and transformation.

_______________________
*All right, thoughtfully choosing is conjecture on my part; still, this writer is sure it took more than a few minutes while nursing his favorite Starbuck’s beverage, for Mr. Robinson to well devise a worship service that so wonderfully reflects the gravity and majesty of the moment.

Defining Sin for a Contemporary Culture

2011-03-27T22:58:00.001-05:00

First, I freely admit that this is not an original title. I ran across this phrase earlier this evening as I perused my Facebook home page, trying to catch up on what is happening with my FB friends. There was the usual stuff: a new picture of my grand-nephew, P.H., a happy child of a fantastic mom; a rehashed obituary of the Pillsbury Dough Boy which still makes me laugh aloud [I refuse to use LOL -- oops -- I just did :( ]; an update from a musician acquaintance who writes often of sports (much better than getting it via television news) and church-related issues (sometimes funny, sometimes serious, generally thought-provoking); a couple of Friend Requests; more messages to which to respond than I really want to; you get the gist. Amidst those common tidbits was a post that dealt with one of the most controversial issues of the day with LIKES and COMMENTS that followed. Among those comments was a phrase regarding how we should define sin for a contemporary culture. That phrase has so haunted me that I have revisited that blurb several times now. It conjures up thoughts of recent discussions in my Sunday School class and Wednesday Bible studies at South Main Baptist Church (plug for SMBC).

Second, I also admit that this writing may offend others, including folks who may, loosely or sincerely, use the term friend in relation to me. My hope, however, is that as I respect their rights to believe as they wish, they will respect mine, and perhaps this is a point on which we may have to just agree to disagree.

Third, I freely admit that I am a sinner. I know guilt. And shame. Therefore, I judge no one; I condemn no one. Judgment and condemnation of others are simply not in my purview. It is enough for me that each morning and evening I can look in a mirror while brushing teeth and be grateful that God has given me another day for work on my own human failings. With that said, I freely admit, however, that some behaviors I simply hate: lying, stealing, killing -- you know -- the stuff of the Ten Commandments (which is also foundational stuff for our laws). Then there are also infractions like smoking, wearing fragrances ad nauseam, driving with a phone plastered to the side of one's face, and other behaviors that are a lot more than mere annoyances.

Okay, on their faces, the also infractions are not normally construed as sins; yet, they have the potential to cause irreparable harm to the body, and not just the body of the smoker, fragrance wearer, or telephone-talking driver, but others around them as well, and even death. For those who suffer with medical conditions caused through no fault of their own, to be subjected to the exacerbating effects of tobaccos and perfumes by people who put their rights to so engage themselves above all else is, to those who so suffer, a threat to their well-being. They think of terms like assault and attempted murder.   Trust me; I know this to be true, and often have to work at stifling deep-seated anger and frustration, and the urge to kill them before they kill me. And statistics show that folks who drive while engaging in telephone conversations are more likely to be involved in vehicular crashes resulting in debilitating, life-change injuries, or death.

So much for the prefatory. The rest is pretty short, though not simple, and starts with a question. How does one define sin for a contemporary culture?
Short answer: I don't have a clue. I never gave a thought to sin evolving as mankind devolved.

Next question: Well, why not?
Well, how about this question in lieu of an answer: What makes one think that because the world has changed in technology, temperament and tolerance, that what was sin 4,000 or 3,000 or 2,000 years ago is different today?

Well, there are schools of thought that condone killing under certain circumstances.
Well, that may be true, and even while God gave the Word to the Israelites Thou shalt not kill, He also instructed them to kill all the people in the lands they were to occupy. It seems then, that there is killing, and then there is Killing.

And what about the scripture that says God "hardened" Pharaoh's heart?
Well, the Book does say that (Exodus 9:12). Does how the Creator uses His creation give the created license to act contrary to His instructions? I think not. This passage has often troubled me. Why would God harden Pharaoh's heart in such a way that ultimately led to Pharaoh's death? And on several occasions I have had to remind myself that God can use anyone or anything He wants to, in any way He wants to. In that regard I sometimes envision this scenario -- and while I cannot prove it was the way it happened, you cannot prove it did not:

After losing his son to the plague that befell all of the first-born in Egypt who were not protected, Pharaoh allowed the Israelites to leave, and in anger (and probably a lot of other negative emotions), pursued them until he, along with his followers, were consumed by the Red Sea. The aftermath: Pharaoh ascends to heaven and is welcomed by the Almighty for a job well done.*

As I said, I cannot prove it, but neither can you disprove it. Just admit it is something to consider (or not) and let's move along.*

And what is this DEVOLVING business?
Well, I'm glad you asked. A simple definition of devolve is to pass on or delegate to another. In the context of this little blog, mankind is ever devolving. The more knowledgeable and advanced we become, the more we shirk our responsibilities and commitments, passing them on into the ether where they become the responsibilities and commitments of some unknown force or entity as we continue to live in a foggy La-La Land, making excuses for our actions or lack thereof, buying into every frenzied trend of entertainment, including every gadget imaginable, 99.99999999% of which are made in other countries, providing jobs to others while 99.9999999% of corporate America embraces downsizing, rightsizing, cutbacks, layoffs and outsourcing, and any other gimmick one can envision, in the end making our country a slave to the rest of the world. (Sorry about the outburst; I'll have to save that for another time.)

So what does all that have to do with devolving -- and sin?
Such great questions you ask! Devolving and sin really go hand in glove. While in a state of devolution, one succumbs to any compulsion to say and do anything one chooses without regard to the rights of others or the Way of the Almighty. As Pastor Steve (www.smbc.org) might say, We live in God's world but not in God's Way. And when one chooses to live his own way, justifying whatever one says and does according to one's situation or circumstances, or the thorn in one's flesh,** one shuts the door on the Father's grace which is sufficient for those who believe.

Well, you really didn't answer the question and you definitely did not define sin for a contemporary culture.
True, and frankly, who can? Still, without judging or condemning any, loving all through Christ Jesus while hating the thoughts, words and deeds that are not of the Father's Way, I do commend all to Him, whose grace is sufficient for all, for His power is made perfect in weakness, even so-called contemporary ones.

The bottom line is this:
The advent of situational ethics did not rewrite the Bible; rather it just gave us something through which to ride our chariots when looking for a loophole. What the loophole does not account for, however, is the love that will make a parent suffer through disciplining, and even confinement in prison, of a child for the child's sake; or one not taking a life because one is not the giver of life.

Lying is still lying. Killing is still killing. Adultery is still adultery. Stealing is stealing, even though in our contemporary ilk stealing has all kinds of labels -- misappropriation and embezzlement, for instance. Covetousness -- well it's still that too, so if it's not yours, forget about it.

For this writer, who often drafts documents for others with revisions so numerous that they end with the year, month, day and time (for example, 2011 0325 2219 means the 25th day of March 2011, 10:19 p.m.), there are no revisions to sin. The 2000 AD version is the 2000 BC version.

So, dear ones, give yourself a break. All of that energy devoted to establishing some new benchmark for sin by today's standards might best be expended with the Father, Who is strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow. I dare you to try Him, even in your contemporary situation. His faithfulness was great whenever the book of Lamentations (3:23) was written, and, trust me on this, it's pretty great today, 2011 0327 2252.

To him who is able to keep you from stumbling and to present you before His glorious presence without fault and with great joy -- to the only God our Savior be glory, majesty, power and authority, through Jesus Christ our Lord, before all ages, now and forevermore! Amen. (Jude 24-25).

Praying that you lean and not stumble . . .

__________________
*A note to Bible scholars: This is my blog; these are my thoughts. Let's leave it at that.
**⁶ Even if I should choose to boast, I would not be a fool, because I would be speaking the truth. But I refrain, so no one will think more of me than is warranted by what I do or say, ⁷ or because of these surpassingly great revelations. Therefore, in order to keep me from becoming conceited, I was given a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me. ⁸ Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. ⁹ But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. (2 Corinthians 12:6-9 NIV)

It is Well With My Soul: Looking on the Bright Side

2011-03-08T21:07:00.001-06:00

A preemptive apology: Writing in first person is something from which I normally shy away. For this little piece, it simply cannot be helped. Another apology: Sorry about the large font; at this time of the day my eyes need a little more help than normal.

Have you ever had one of those days during which nothing seemed to go the way you planned it go? Wanted it go? Felt as if it should go? Well, I'm having one of those weeks -- months -- years . . . pick one. I would add decades, but 2011 is a newbie.

Too much time has passed since I posted a blog; e'en while I have felt several "coming on" I have resisted the urge to write. Do you ever get those urges? Your juices start to flow, and whether you write prose or music or poetry, do knitting, needlepoint or embroidery (I suppose folks still do that), work in your garden or paint or do puzzles or whatever, you feel the urge to do whatever serves as your outlet. For me, writing and music are my outlets -- my drugs of choice. While I'm middle-of-the-road mediocre at both, each serve as relief valves, de-stressers, natural highs, spiritual flights to the heavens, media of expressing all wonderful kinds of emotions, and a host of other wholly positive purposes. I've done a lot of music lately, singing with the Houston Ebony Opera Guild, preparing to sing with a group at Houston's Rothko chapel later this week, singing in worship with South Main Baptist Church, my family of God here on this earth, and preparing to sing at our noon Ash Wednesday service tomorrow. Considering recent events, I've decided to resort to writing, purely for therapeutic purposes, since I will do music for preparatory purposes later this evening.

So what's this all about? Gee, I like it when you ask the right question. Let me just tell you a little -- just a little -- about my day.

As a freelancer/contractor -- however the heck you want to label me, I have found it helpful to plan my days, whether with billable work or other work (you know, all that stuff that has to be done). In planning my days I have found certain patterns. Normally if I have an appointment away from my home office, eventually there is at least one other appointment scheduled that day or other things to do while I'm out. Many times I can see that I will be out all day and will plan accordingly, making sure there is an ample supply of bottled water, Melaleuca cinnamon gum, my own concocted trail mix, contingency clothing (you just never know what'll happen), and my laptop and tablet PC (again, you just never know . . .).

Today was supposed to be an out all day day, and I prepared accordingly, making sure that I had everything I needed, even stuff for a 5:30 p.m. meeting. I left home at 8:15 for a 9:00 appointment with a lawyer. After fighting my way to I10 West, jockeying for position to stay on I10 and take an inside-the-loop exit, just as I drove up the exit ramp, my phone rang. It was someone at the lawyer's office telling me he had an emergency and has left. Wow. My next appointment is 2 hours later! First adjustment to the schedule -- not too much of a big deal, just extra miles in the wrong direction (I promise not to discuss rising gas prices), then on to my 11:00 appointment.

Okay, this one is different for me. A headhunter had actually called me (this is simply not done; I am at the top of every headhunter's DO NOT CALL list, and have been since November 1990), raved about my background and credentials, said that she had the perfect position for me, and asked me to visit with her. After a good hour of discussion she announced that I am really an entrepreneur and I should just get my business going again, that I would not be happy with a job. Based on our conversation it was appropriate for me to respond with that passage from Philippians 4:11-12, and from one of my favorite hymns, the line Whatever my lot Thou hast taught me to say it is well with my soul. Our visit ended with my host saying, Can we talk again? I really need to pray about this.  And can we pray right now? And pray, she did. My head was reeling; I felt the urge to go home and so put myself on auto-pilot. There went the afternoon.

I have no explanation for the loss of time, but at some point I found myself in the kitchen, preparing a staging area for a smoothie-making session. First slap-stick moment: tipping over a full bottle of apple juice on the kitchen counter -- not good -- followed by six batches of fruit & veggie smoothies yielding 2.25 gallons of nutrition. Good. And just in time to clean up the kitchen and myself and get ready for a 5:30 appointment.

Returning home, I made a salad for dinner and poured a little red wine. My doctor has instructed me to drink red wine. I don't like red wine. I'm a Riesling, Gewurztraminer or White Zinfadel kind of woman, and I rarely imbibe. But, I'm following instructions. And now, here is slap-stick moment number two, with a multiple-choice question:

Q. When you topple over the glass of wine on your desk (and, of course, that is not the place for the glass in the first place), is it better for the spill to land:

a. on top of the desk
b. on the bottom shelf of the desk just a few inches from the floor
c. on the chair mat which the desk sits and on the rug on which the chair mat that sits
d. on the nearly-white Pergo flooring on which the rug lays
e. on the little table that holds four filled pencil/pen cups, inside the cups and on the try on which the cups sit
f. on the number pad section of the ergonomic keyboard which is no longer popular and doggoned hard to find
g. none of the above
h. all of the above.

While the desired answer is g, the factual answer is h.

As I blotted and mopped up the foul-tasting stuff that will definitely leave its mark on several surfaces, there was lots of time to plow through the maybes and what-ifs of the day, the week, last week, last month, this year, last year, or whatever. And this, I told myself, is what's important:

Giving up is not an option. A little spilled juice, wine, or whatever is not a big deal when you look at the big picture. Where did you spill the juice? In your kitchen. In your home. Where did you spill the wine? On your desk. In your pencil cups. On your rug. On your floor. In your office. In your home. Did you have enough juice to make your smoothies? Yes, and there's plenty left. Did you refill your glass with wine? Yes, and there's plenty left, even if I don't like it. Your first appointment didn't happen. The guy did not call you back to reschedule and you're seeking his services. What does that tell you? Find another lawyer. Your 11 o'clock was most unusual. Did she tell you the usual "you're overqualified" animal dung? No. Did she ask to see you again? Yes. So you've cleaned up your mess, finished your dinner -- now what? I'm gonna vent via my blog, go upstairs, and thank my God for the good, bad, ugly and indifference of this day, sing one of my favorite songs -- It is Well With My Soul, practice for worship tomorrow, and ask Him to give me peace and rest tonight, and a new day to try again tomorrow.

I have had days far worse than today -- days filled with abandonment, betrayal, grief, deception, physical impairment and more. Even now I look back over the last few years in wonder and amazement and lots and lots of thanksgiving, realizing that there is no way I could have made it to this day, the 8th of March 2011, without Him. This day was a cakewalk. And there is a bright side. There is an old song that says "There's a bright side somewhere, don't you stop until you find it." I don't agree with that, and I've got news for the brothers who sang that song: The bright side is right here, right now. Even if you don't have your best life now, your bright side is right here, right now. Let the day take care of itself; just seize the moment. Whether the moment is one in which you are at rest, are still and at peace, or are poised, ready to spring into action, make the most of the moment. I lost a couple of hours today. Had they been intentionally devoted to rest, they would not have been lost. I literally cannot account for them.

A moment is a pivotal point in time. THERE IS NO ADJUSTMENT BUREAU!  You are your adjustment bureau. It's how you handle this moment that will shape the next. In the legal world in one moment -- suddenly and without warning as they say -- lives are often changed forever. The Bible says the Lord Jesus will come in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye (1 Corinthians 15:52).

So, I leave you first, with this question: How will you spend your next moment? And, secondly, with more words from one of my favorite hymns, It Is Well With My Soul:

When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,

When sorrows like sea billows roll;

Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,

It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,

Let this blest assurance control,

That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,

And hath shed His own blood for my soul.

My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!

My sin, not in part but the whole,

Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,

Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!

And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,

The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;

The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,

Even so, it is well with my soul.

Refrain.

It is well, with my soul,

It is well, it is well, with my soul

-- Horatio G. Spafford*

*Mr. Spafford wrote this shortly after losing his family in a shipwreck.

There is "The" God

2011-01-07T16:56:00.001-06:00

Early this afternoon Daryl Robinson stirred hearts with an eclectic and thoughtful mix of music as only he can deliver via his primary instrument -- pipe organ. His recital was the first in a series called "First Fridays" co-sponsored by the Sacred Heart Co-Cathedral and the University of Houston's school of music.

The Co-Cathedral’s structure at 1111 St. Joseph Parkway is relatively new. During its construction it was frequently highlighted by various media as the building took shape and trappings and furnishings of every secularly-dubbed sacred kind and character were brought in to adorn the place with just the right marble, just the right statuary, just the right stained glass, blah, blah, blah. It is indeed a magnificent structure, and a haven on the south end of downtown Houston – a place that I dread frequenting because of the traffic, noise, unfriendly parking (especially if one needs an accessible [politically correct word for handicapped space]), and especially the all-too-often unfriendly, self-possessed, self-absorbed people. I had never visited the Co-Cathedral. I am not Catholic and have never thought of worshiping there, and I do not see it as an attraction to tour – like going to the Museum of Fine Arts (no offense to the folks who have done this).

As the sanctuary emptied of folks who attended the 12:10 mass, those of us who came for the recital joined those who chose to stay after the mass. I took a seat about midway -- just a few feet from what appeared to be a small, very still pool of water in a raised marble platform (which I assumed to be part of the trappings of some Catholic ritual). The organ, it turns out, is not in a place of prominence in the front, but in the choir loft above the main entrance in the back of the sanctuary.

Without a word, Daryl began playing at the appointed time. Some folks turned around to see Daryl – as much as could be seen of a man of medium height sitting at the instrument ensconced in the southeast corner of the loft. Actually, it is hard to blame them for wanting to see. The stuff that Daryl executes with precision, excellence and grace, is sometimes difficult for one to actually believe comes from only 10 fingers and two feet. As the sound of the organ filled the room I sat still and closed my eyes. My first and continuing thought was only God could make something like this happen.

Some will ask what’s God got to do with it? Well, ask away! And I am happy to answer:

God made the dirt from which He created humankind.
God gave humankind the thoughts, dreams, will, desire and ability to design great houses of worship – even knowing that our worship will not always be in spirit and truth (and that subject will be put aside for another time).
God gave some the technology to make what others conceived in their minds, possible to construct.
God gave others the skills and physical stamina to do the work to make the concept as outlined on paper and electronics, tangible.
God stirred the hearts of others to make the financial commitments that brought all of the other elements together for the finished project -- even if they did it for the tax deduction or publicity.
God created music. Those 12 half-tones and the infinite ways in which they have been combined for millennia have done more to soothe the hearts, minds and souls of people all over the world, and even draw people of diverse nations, ethnicities, cultures and beliefs together on common ground, even in war, than anything else and anyone else other than Jesus, the Christ Himself, the Son of the Living, Almighty God.
And God brought Mr. & Mrs. Robinson together; they had a son and named him Daryl. And for most of his young life, Daryl has embraced the art and honed his skills of making beautiful music.

Daryl’s Bach piece so moved one man that at its end he emitted an involuntary, audible cry, shaking me from my solitude (yes, it was as if I was alone in that huge room, enveloped in the music of the Almighty via Daryl’s hands). I didn't recognize the man who could barely contain himself – or so I observed – through my own tears.

Daryl's mastery of the pipe organ is absolutely phenomenal. Most folks with a degree of talent even approaching that which Daryl possesses would be so stuck on themselves they wouldn't even be approachable. I am proud and pleased to call him son -- sweetie -- dear or whatever comes to mind -- and that regardless of how I tag him for the moment, he responds with understanding that my labels are just an expression of my affection for him, and by extension, our God who made everything possible, creating us out of love.

A suggestion to any who is in doubt about God being behind all of this: get your own dirt and do your own thing.

May the peace of God be with you always; may His goodness and mercy ever follow you.

Where are All the Mahatmas?

2010-12-30T10:25:00.001-06:00

The Merriam Webster word of the day is "mahatma." http://www.merriam-webster.com/word-of-the-day/2010/12/30/ --  a person to be revered for high-mindedness, wisdom and selflessness. The moment I saw the word "revered" I thought about all the "reverends" I know. And I thought of how that word is generally self-attributed and very much overused to the point of abuse.

It really galls me when people say my name is 'reverend doe. Sometimes my follow-up question is what did your mother name you?" (Of course, this is no different from people who say my name is Doctor Doe or Attorney Doe or -- or Evangelist Doe -- or my all-time grating-on-my-nerves one -- Lady Minister Doe. News flash folks: Your name is not your title or what you do for a living.

The one time I saw "Rev. Andrea Hoxie" in an article written by the late "Bud" Johnson, one of my dearest sparring partners (verbal, of course), I had to give him a call; we had a serious conversation, including a little discussion of Psalm 111:9.

Words are important. They encourage, convict, condemn, support, dissappoint, exhort, admonish, and deify -- or at least, attempt to do so. Sometimes they begin with a thought; sometimes not. These words I write today began with a thought -- primarily the possibility of offending those whom I love and respect, some of whom are oftentimes referred to by that "R" word. And then, I thought of those folks, and remembered why I respect them. They accept me as I am, including the sometimes radical and unconventional Andrea who goes against the grain. Even when we agree to disagree, it is without condemnation.

Some folks are probably thinking right now: Why would she write something so offensive? So inflammatory? What difference does is make that we call our priests, preachers, pastors and ministers "Reverend"? Well, consider this: Does it make a difference when someone calls you a receptionist when you're a secretary? A gal when you're an administrator? A secretary when you're a paralegal? A boy when you're a man? A hooker, prostitute or whore when you have reserved your body exclusively for your spouse?

Words do matter. We speak them and they take life, become flesh. How many children have taken paths uttered by mean-spirited, impatient, ignorant folks who told them they would never amount to anything?  Yes, words matter.

So, now, a few questions:

Does that certificate of ordination, license to preach, divinity degree, or your spouse's call to the ministry justify use of the handle Rev.?
Do you preach and teach God's word with authority, and then live as if there is no God, or as if He is blind and deaf?
Do your beliefs, thoughts, attitude, behavior, and actions reflect reverend?
Do you try to justify extra privileges to accorded to you because you use the handle?
Is your general comportment the same whether you are at or away from home?

In other words, are you truly a mahatma? Or do you just wear the mask? Here is a hint if you have difficulty answering the question: The one man most of us know as Mahatma was Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi. It is said that he protested against the title Mahatma that was conferred on him by others. This simple-living man seemingly cared nothing for the transient trappings that are coveted by others. He was wise, selfless and high-minded. Mahatma? And because of his wisdom, selflessness and high-mindedness, he was revered. Reverend?

Even while we have high regard for the wise, selfless, high-minded folks of this world, there is but One, Who is indeed Reverend. And He is called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. And at His name, every knee shall bow and every tongue acknowledge and confess that He is Lord. Jesus, the Christ. Reverend.

To Tell the Truth (V. Michael McKay)

Remembering Glenn and Charles

2010-12-13T00:14:00.000-06:00

I have the best of both worlds. While I enjoy formally structured music, and am privileged to know a plethora of talented musicians (SMBC's Daryl Robinson, for one), who can properly execute the most intricate musical works and make such execution appear to be effortless, I also revel in the soul-stirring spontaneity of improvisational music, such as Glenn Burleigh's live rendition of one of my most favorite hymns. This is a fitting time for me to find this recording, as it was just three years ago, around this time, that Glenn left this earth for a better life. He is still missed by many, including me. And even three years later, the gifts our God gave us through Glenn and his musical talent, are still giving; over, continuously we who love Glenn and his music are still reaping the benefits of those blessings.

On a similar note, just a few days ago, we celebrated the birthday of Charles Richards. He, too, was a talented musician. Unlike Glenn, he was not known nationwide. He served same family of God here in Houston for more than 35 years. He was the consummate gospel organist with a unique sound that I have never heard duplicated. And he was much more than an organist. Just as he blended his own sound on the Hammond organ, he trained and blended voices to sing God's praises. It just so happens he really liked Glenn's music and incorporated it into his music ministry frequently. Charles left this earth for a better life earlier this year. He too is missed by many, including me.

Now, about the link: There may be one who listens to this recording and cannot understand what Glenn did with this lovely hymn. Where did all that come from? That's not the way it's supposed to go! Why did he do that? When is he going to resolve that phrase? How could he do that? Charles would understand. It's just a thing that happens when the Spirit is like fire in your bones. He leads you down paths you would not normally take -- many times well off the printed page; He pulls stuff out of you, the existence of which you are quite ignorant; and even while your heart pounds so hard you know it will soon explode, and you know for sure that you are soaring among the clouds, He keeps you from going off the deep end. And when it's all over, He sets you down gently and safely. And, you understand your feet are actually firmly planted -- on the ground.

Even while you're the same, you're not quite -- there's a little something different. It may be a new perspective of an old issue, or a sense of peace that wasn't there before, or an urge to bridge the chasm of a derailed relationship. It's kind of like something for which Pastor Steve prays when he asks God to speak to us through His Word, so that we will be less of what we used to be, and more of what we ought to be, through Christ Jesus. What I'm saying is that the Word of God, even through a hymn, has transformative powers. To one who cannot understand, I can only refer you to the words to this awesome hymn, which are themselves more than sufficient to make my heart soar. And if those lyrics are not sufficient, feel free to go to the source: Lamentations 3:23. In the meantime, I believe I'll hobble upstairs and visit this hymn for myself -- just for a while. As for you, the reader, visit Glenn's rendition here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UR2hoEN2t2M

Health Care: There's Something to be Said for Keeping it Simple

2010-11-12T12:34:00.000-06:00

KISS is one of my favorite acronyms. Keep it Simple (some might add Stupid -- I do not) has become, for me, a lifestyle. While it is not often reflected in my writings, which I am told are full of (on any other day I would likely have used fraught instead of full of) archaic expressions, I tend to favor keeping it simple in most other areas, like

-- a regular diet of fresh fruits and vegetables, and a little protein and intentional fat [confessing here the tendency to favor my own recipe for wheat buds, which has everything to do with dark chocolate folded into some less-decadent ingredients like oatmeal and whole wheat flour], rather than larger-than-life servings of battered, dipped and fried messes of stuff, or breakfast breads elaborately adorned with a year's supply of sugary additives,

OR

-- a simple mode of dress which has little to do with the latest trends (have you seen some of the shoes women are supposed to wear? --- definitely not made for walking!

OR

-- settling for the wheels that came with the vehicle purchased as opposed to the four-figure ($) things I was asked to purchase, purely for aesthetic reasons,

OR

-- in my own mind, as I draft a petition alleging unjust enrichment or misappropriation of funds, thinking theft is theft no matter how you dress it up.

I just find KISS is a lot less stressful and an easier way to function. It is unfortunate that the KISS principle has not made its way into the area of health care. In fact, it appears that every year, both in public and private sectors, the issue of health care gets more complicated, and the burden of finding the right health care plan becomes more onerous and tedious. Regulations that are made to protect those seeking information often make that information difficult to find. Despite rules and ethics, folks may be misinformed and locked into a health care plan that is not right for them. As we move toward the end of this year, one remedy is to get information from someone who has no loyalty to any one company or plan, and who will share sufficient information to assist with choosing the plan than is right for the individual, not the company's bottom line. This is not to negate the significance of a private company's or plan's bottom line, which lends itself to discussion profit margins, returns on investment, job losses or gains, and so forth. This is however, to make the point that no one is served fairly if the seekers of health care services do not get what they need. In that regard, where services are not delivered, everyone loses.

It is important to make a well-informed decision when choosing a health care plan. An interactive website may not address all of your health care plan concerns or answer all of your questions in that regard. Be encouraged, especially if you are a senior or have been declared totally disabled, to contact someone who will help to simplify your issues and assist you in making that decision.

Random Thoughts of My Father on His Birthday

2010-11-05T20:04:00.000-05:00

Having lived three times as long as I had his physical presence in my life, I am still awestruck by how much he gave me in the 14 years we had before his body ceased to function. Even today, for me, Lewis Hoxie is very much alive. He is always with me. My words are often his words. My thoughts, attitudes and opinions are so much like his. Some folks who know me may not think those are such good things; how very short-sighted they are!

When I was a toddler he added a handle to the screen door leading to our front porch, positioned to be within my grasp, giving me freedom to go from the house to the porch in my own time and way.

He allowed me sips of Mogen David Concord Grape wine with my Oreo cookie (in retrospect, that combination grosses me out, but back then . . .).

He removed the seeds from my melons, diced and speared them with toothpicks and served them to me so that I could pretend the fruity cubes were hors d' oveures.

I stood on his feet and walked with him.

I met him at the kitchen door when he arrived home from work.

I gave him exclusive rights to kiss the dimple in the middle of my forehead and he gladly accepted.

No one in the neighborhood bothered me because they knew I belonged to him. If some poor soul had a lapse of memory, a simple "I'm going to tell my daddy" was sufficient to make all scatter.

He let me drive from the front gate to the garage opening. Okay, it was less than 100 feet, but still . . . .

He took our family to church every Sunday. I sometimes sat with him in the seating reserved for deacons during worship. No one ever asked me to move.

He only had to make me go outside and cut a switch just a couple of times. I thank God for the switch -- and the strap; I figure they were a lot easier to take then than being behind bars would be now.

As long as I didn't have a fever or some childhood ailment -- or my toe wasn't tagged -- we all went to church on Sundays, first for Sunday School, then worship, then back in the evening for Training Union. I thank God for Training Union. I can find scriptures in the Bible without looking at the table of contents, and many I know now because my father and mother taught us decades ago. I can speak, sing or play piano in the presence of a few or a few thousand. All because my daddy took -- not sent -- his family to church.

My brother is smart, solid, strong, dutiful, responsible, supportive and loving. In other words, he is what a man should be. My brother is one of the most upright men I know. When I look at Brer, or think of Brer, I also see or think of my father.

Daddy did not have a lot of money. He worked hard and provided for his family. The house he built 60 years ago has weathered every Houston storm without damage and still stands solidly today. We were always well fed, well clothed, well nurtured and well loved. While money can buy the food and clothing, no currency is sufficient to purchase the care and love my father bestowed upon his family. In that regard, we were -- and are -- wealthier than most.

My father tolerated little nonsense from people. I am very much like him in that way and don't mind it -- not one bit.

That is enough for now. There is no grand ending because Daddy's story continues. As long as there is a Hoxie limb from his branch of the tree, or a twig from a limb of his branch, or a fruit that fell from a twig from a limb of his branch of that tree, my daddy will be around. It would be nice, though, if he could kiss my third dimple just once more.

Happy birthday, Daddy.

Elitism Everywhere

2010-11-01T08:55:00.000-05:00

One has not begun to appreciate the choral repertoire until one is familiar with Palestrina.

This smug little response was made to the question "What are your favorite choral works to sing" posted on Facebook questions. The response is elitist, exclusive, divisive, and just downright snotty -- reeking of a strong implication that the appreciation of choral music which excludes certain choral works could not possibly be "appreciation."

Being one whose musical style has been described as "too white for black" and "too black for white," this writer is content to straddle the fence and land on either side in comfort. Sometime ago, many evenings were spent jumping from one side of the fence to the other: first to Sleepy Hollow, a restaurant/piano bar in Town & Country Village in Houston, sitting in for Russ White, the consummate all-around pianist. When Russ took his breaks, Andrea would play and sometimes sing old standards like I Left My Heart in San Francisco and My Funny Valentine. Then she would zip across town to the Wunderbar on Southmore in the Third Ward area and end the night listening to Iola Broussard belt out jazz and blues standards. Other evenings were spent, spellbound, at the opera or symphony. And then -- on Sunday morning -- generally multiple worship services incorporating all genres of religious music, from songs based on African melodies (the harmonies for which were nonexistent -- and damn the musician who would tried to create them!), to incredible hymns, the compositions of which were paid for with life's experiences, to soul-stirring gospel, to centuries old anthems that made one's heart soar to the heavens. With such musical wealth, how can one have "A" favorite? Is there one and only one way to touch one's heart? If so, what a tiny heart one must have!

So, what has this to do with elitism everywhere? Simply this: a narrow scope of any one area can be indicative of a narrow scope of the big picture. True, everyone is entitled to one's own opinions and preferences. Still, how far does one go with that?

Try this: One has only begun to appreciate automobiles until one is familiar with the Koeniggsegg Trevita, which, at $2.21 million (according to Forbes) is the world's most expensive car.

Just curious: What about the automobile that is right for you? That you can afford? That serves you well?

Or, try this: One has only begun to appreciate flowers until one is familiar with Cannas or Calla Lilys.

Just curious: What about those daisies your child or spouse picked out of the front yard and brought to you in a mason jar?

Or, try this: One has only begun to appreciate beauty until one is familiar with Julia Roberts, Kim Kardashian, Katy Perry, . . . ????

Just curious: Who is truly beautiful to you? Is he/she someone with the right look on the outside? Is that all that matters? If so, what happens when the look fades? What about the person behind the look?

Now, try this: One has only begun to appreciate -- freedom -- education -- others -- until one is familiar with --- ????

So, what does it for you? Is your appreciation of freedom based on your having rights that others do not enjoy? Is your appreciation of education exclusive to you and yours, or something to which all should have access? Is your appreciation of others based on whether or not they look, act, speak and think like you?

Or can you appreciate that while we may be 99% alike, the 1% that makes us different from each other is the special something that God put in each us for the sake of variety and diversity -- to expound on the miracle of His creation? Is there but one type of fruit? Flower? Dog? Bird? Man? Woman? Culture? Absolutely not!

The differences in all of us make elitism in any realm a smear on the big picture of creation, and an absolute slap in the face of the Creator.

How dare any of us -- what right have any of us -- to slap the face of the Creator?

Drop That Foolish Delusion??? -- Part II -- Slugs

2010-10-28T08:39:00.000-05:00

II. Many Bloodsuckers

On the last Wednesday of September this year, this writer was blessed to attend Bible Study with the family of God known as South Main Baptist Church. Pastor Steve rendered a wonderfully inspiring and thought-provoking introduction of the Gospel of Mark. At some point during the Bible Study we were reminded of an upcoming election, and that candidates would be out in full force, making promises that none could keep. When asked which party might that be -- Republicans or Democrats, there rang throughout the Fellowship Hall a one-word, unanimous answer: Both! That is true. So, after toiling over which Slug (sorry-butt sluggard) or CTI (critically thinking idealist) to highlight first, I want to thank Pastor Steve for inspiration.

Before we delve into this writing -- THERE ARE EXCEPTIONS TO THE SLUGS MOST CALL POLITICIANS AND I CALL MANY BLOODSUCKERS. The problem is that the CTIs who happen to have been elected to their positions of responsibility and authority, are few and far between -- like -- a needle in a haystack -- a cool drink of water on a hot summer's day -- just plain rare!

So, why does this writer label most politicians slugs?

A. They develop amnesia quickly, so we ask: Now, why did you say you were seeking to be elected to this particular office?

B. They are redundant, regurgitating and rechewing the same drivel, and we ask: Wasn’t it the last election, and the one before that, and the one before that, that you said you were going to strengthen our border security – or was it the one before that?? Wasn’t it the last election, and the one before that, and the one before that, that you said you were going to reduce crime – or was it the one before that?? Wasn’t it the last election, and the one before that, and the one before that, that you said you were going to strength our educational system – or was it the one before that??

C. They steal. Okay, that’s a bit much for some; let’s try this: they reallocate funds that were supposedly intended for a particular purpose, to some other concern for which they were really intended in the first place. Otherwise, they see to the allocation of funds to sometimes frivolous, nonviable purposes that serve an elite group, or to some worthwhile project that benefits the many after the elite group has made their profit from the project.

D. They are lousy lovers: they tell us what we want to hear, then do what they want to do, oftentimes to our utter detriment.

E. Many have outlived their usefulness, and now appear to be resting on their laurels. The problem with that is there are no laurels upon which to rest.

F. They simply don’t do their jobs. Some assume the offices to which they were elected but the duties of which they are incompetent to properly execute. Others are busy padding their pockets and investing in their own futures. Some just spend as much time on the golf course as possible. And, in Houston, that’s pretty darn near a year-round activity.

Before any reader starts speculating about the identities of the folks of whom I write, consider that at the age of 56, I’ve seen a lot of ballots and a slew of politicians, and have read of as many who preceded my voting age. Just know that there is no political party within which slugs nest exclusively. They are as diverse as this country of ours.

So, why devote the time and energy to write about these many blood-sucking slugs? That’s simple. This is not for them; it is for you, the reader, the electorate. Unfortunately there is a much larger populace than that of slugs. We are they: the apathetic, the complacent, the folks who keep returning washed up, dried out, used up, weren’t-worth-a-plugged-nickel-from-the-beginning, lazy, incompetent folks to office. And then we complain. How dare we!!!???

And finally, a word to politicians: Just like all Cognac is brandy, but not all brandy is Cognac, slugs are politicians, but all politicians are not slugs. Then again, if you are a politician and can be identified by one or more of paragraphs A, B, C, D, E and F above, perhaps you are indeed a slug.

Grace & peace,

Andrea Hoxie

Loren Jackson -- Harris County District Clerk

2010-10-19T08:02:00.000-05:00

The general election of 2008 brought waves of change to not only government on the national level, but on local levels as well. Here in Harris County, Texas we lost lots of judges. Peculiarly, one in particular who should have gone the way of other exiting jurists managed to hold on. I find that peculiar because the numbers from the election results show that feat to be impossible by any reasonable, ethical, legal or moral standard. See Merriam Webster's word of the day - peculation - which with some poetic license I believe is appropriate to apply here. Talk about digressing: this is a first for me -- to digress in the introductory paragraph AND speak in first person -- but I shall leave it as is.

One really great bright spot emerging in victory from the November 2008 election is Loren Jackson, our District Clerk. In two years, Mr. Jackson has done more to improve the operations of that office than I have seen in the previous 26 years of exposure to it. True, technology is on his side. Also true, however, is that the technology existed before he assumed the office. The difference is that unlike his predecessor, he embraced available technology, bringing the function of the Clerk for 74 Courts in Harris county, among other dues, into the 21st century.

Whether Republican, Democrat, Libertarian, Green, Tea Party, Independent, or none of the above, I pray that all will vote, and that regardless of party affiliation, they will vote for Loren Jackson so that he can continue the substantial work he has done to further the efficiency of the Harris County Courts.

Now, if we can just elect some real judges -- you know -- ones who will actually do the work they were elected to do -- based on sound law (alright, this to some is an oxymoron) and not some flimsy whim.

And the final word is this: Please vote for Loren Jackson, Harris County District Clerk.

Drop That Foolish Delusion???

2010-09-15T13:30:00.001-05:00

I. Introduction

This writer is a voracious reader without the time or visual strength to read voraciously. Thank God for technology that spawned CDs, MP3 players, public libraries and www.onthegobooks.com!

The current read/listen is The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand. Have you read it? Or, perhaps, you may have read her Atlas Shrugged. Both of these mammoth works of fiction are fraught with critically thinking idealists ("CTI"), on the one hand, and sorry-butt sluggards who never seem to transcend a state of group mentality ("Slugs"), on the other. My dilemma is that while I tend to agree more with the CTIs rather than the Slugs, I find the CTIs to generally be a cold, unfeeling, dispassionate bunch. That makes me a little uneasy, as my cold, unfeeling dispassionate self is quite a bit smaller than my warm, feeling, passionate Andrea -- at least so I believe. [Some folks may beg to differ; so be it.] Still, the Slugs tend to trample on my last nerve with their whining, conniving, manipulative, selfish-in-the-name-of-the-people and deceitful ways. Oh, but for a bit of balance! It is my sad acknowledgment that Slugs tend to outnumber CTIs in all areas -- family, work, school, whatever/wherever (perhaps the 80/20 rule applies here?).

The Slugs of the world would have us all believe that the only way to make it in this little world (it is, indeed, quite small when you look at the big picture) is to follow the masses in all respects. And to the extent one's dreams, desires, ambitions, aspirations, and even opinions and thought processes are skewed from those of the masses, there is no place for that kind in the world.

The Slugs of this world -- the ones who would dare say drop that foolish delusion -- be damned! There is a price to pay for that kind of edict, and many CTIs have paid dearly. Still, if one who is a peace-loving, nonconforming traditionalist, often misquoted and misunderstood, still refuses to march to the beat of anyone's drum except one's own, as led by one's God, then so be it. What for most is a foolish delusion may be a solution to a problem that benefits not the CTI so much as it does the masses -- including the Slugs. It is the lack of confidence and downright slothfulness of the Slugs that stifle the nurturing, growth and development of the masses. And the masses are too blind, starved and stunted to see and understand their deprivation.

In the coming blogs we will examine some CTIs and and Slugs -- some from works of fictional and some real*, with the intent of trying to find some balance between the two. I hope you will stick around for the next few entries.

Grace & peace,

Andrea

*Out of basic human respect, no real person will be labeled "Slug" or "CTI." Then, again, if it looks like a Slug, acts like a Slug . . . well, you get the point, don't you?

It's Time

2010-09-05T21:00:00.000-05:00

A few week ago, I watched a video shared on Facebook by Kathryn Paterson (watch for her new book -- I don't know when, but just google her every now and then [and, yes, this is a plug for KP]) -- images of surprise family reunions of U.S. soldiers and their families. If only my ophthalmologist, who recently treated me for an extra-severe case of dry eye, could have seen the tears flow! They were so flushed out that day that I thought (briefly) of foregoing the evening's eye-wash ritual. The images themselves not only evoked the tears, but thoughts of how easily we (yes, all of us), take for granted the folks in our lives who mean (or so we say) so much to us.

Similar thoughts came to me on September 11, 2001, when 2,995+ people arrived for work, appointments or errands, at the World Trade Center in New York, for the last time in their lives. I know of no official count that takes into consideration those who perished sometime thereafter, with the events of that date being the proximate cause of their demise. My thoughts then, and the ones that continue to haunt me, not only about that situation, but those happening everyday are unanswered questions: What if? Did they? Why?

What if a hug was offered that morning and rejected?
What if an apology was tendered and not accepted?
Did they resolve that conflict and depart in peace?
Why didn't he/she/they try one more time?

Why is it so easy for us to tend to the inconsequential while we allow some of the most important aspects of our lives -- our relationships with others -- to languish? Who/what do you blow off while making sure your nails, hair and/or makeup are flawless? Or while you find just the right tie, shirt or cologne? Or who did you disappoint and keep waiting while you had one more drink? To whom did you utter empty words of endearment just to have your way with him or her?

There is no need for a soapbox speech or sermon here. One would hope that any marginally thinking person of the least modicum of discernment would have had a light-coming-on experience if having read to this point. So, how about it folks? Do you have a relationship in need of repair? Attention? Nurturing? Resurrecting? How much time do you think you have to start working on it?

What if . . . ?
Did you . . . ?
Why . . . .?

One Step at a Time: Climbed Any Mountains Lately?

2010-08-22T16:39:00.001-05:00

I looked so high above, as far as I could see

Was a mountain so high it overpowered me

It's peak not seen by my naked eye

I said to myself, "it must touch the sky!"

It was so wide, as wide can be

To go around it would take eternity

Here this mountain stood; in my way it would be

For I could not go forward 'til I put it behind me.

"I've got to do this," to myself I said,

And started to climb, my heart filled with dread.

For I knew deep within I didn't have a chance

Of getting to the top; I could tell at a glance.

But just a short distance away, I saw a little ridge

I could reach in only a day.

"I'll go just that far, then stop there and see

Just how much closer to the top I will be."

So away I went, looking forward to see

Only as far as my first destiny.

I reached the little ridge, sat down with a sigh

And looked ahead to see where my next stop might lie.

There it is; I can see it well

I'll make that one -- easily! I could very well tell.

So this is the way it will have to be

To reach the top, I now clearly see.

For the goals we set, difficult as we may believe

If we take one step at a time, will be possible to achieve.

AHoxie

Building on the Landfill

2010-08-21T14:29:00.001-05:00

Earlier today this writer was reminded of an unpleasant occurrence of about 39 years ago. While the event itself was short-lived, it's effects are ongoing, even today. The reminder of The Thing brought to mind that we are products of everything that has happened in our lives up to the moment in which we take our most recent breath. See? It just happened again. What? you might ask. Well, you just took another breath, and in some tiny, microscopic, miniscule way, you are not the same as before; nor am I. So? you think. What's the point? you persist.

Here, Reader, is the point. It only takes a moment for tiny or dramatic shifts in our lives make them something other than what they were the moment before. In our little lives, things happen -- good, bad and indifferent. The good things help to keep us going: nurturing our minds, bodies and spirits -- encouraging us to try again, to keep going, to not give up -- instilling within us hope for the future -- growing our faith -- catalyzing our ambitions -- deepening our determination. The bad things sometimes serve us similarly, if we can look past the badness to whatever good there is to be gleaned from such as The Thing. Or, the bad things can deter us from being all that was intended by our creation. The indifferent things are -- well -- indifferent. They neither lend to nor take away from whatever; however, they can be useful fodder for one's landfill without causing additional odorous memories like The Bad.

So what's this landfill thing? The landfill is the stuff -- the good, bad and indifferent. It starts as a little whole in the ground. Over time it may get deeper, wider, or higher depending on the need for space to house the stuff that makes one, well, oneself. How one manages the landfill may determine how one manages the present. We can either let it be an unsightly mess with little fragments strewn about in intermittent, untidy piles; or we can confine it to specific boundaries, keep it pressed down and compacted together.

There is no profound statement here. There is no endorsement of any landfill type. There is, however, an understanding that one's landfill should somehow be managed to support modicums of peace and order in one's life. Decide for yourself on what kind of landfill you will build the rest of your life.

Working Through the Mess

2010-08-11T08:52:00.002-05:00

What a fitting title for my 100th writing via this blog -- Coming Out of the Closet -- Keeping it Real. I often wonder what folks think when they first see that title. Anyway, let's get to the sujet du jour

Last week I was in my little kitchen, heating some really good, grainy bread -- bread which begged to be drizzled with grapeseed oil and spices. (Just for the record, grapeseed oil has healthful benefits just as olive oil, but it tolerates higher heat for cooking and is not as heavy-hitting on the wallet.) As I returned the bottle of oil to the shelf, there erupted an involuntary, violent, dry cough, the force of which caused me to lose my grip on the glass bottle which crashed to the floor and shattered. In other words, I had my own personal oil-spill crises. As I took action to clean up the kitchen's environment, two phones rang simultaneously, and my Blackberry vibrated, alerting me of an incoming message.

Working through the mess is -- well -- messy. Sometimes we have to juggle. Sometimes we have to just stop and deal with the mess. Whether we choose to juggle the mess with other stuff or just deal with the mess, one thing is clear: the mess must go.

Our little lives are fraught with ugly messes. The longer they are left untended and unfinished, the larger and more burdensome they become, until they become part of the family. In fact, they can change the family dynamic. Or the business dynamic. Or whatever in your life makes life worth living. Messes are like diseases. If left unchecked they wreak havoc. So what mess have you left untended? Why not clean it up today?

A note from the writer:
Many thanks to Erin Conaway, our Associate Pastor at South Main Baptist Church, whose sermon this past Sunday, taken from the first chapter of Isaiah, validated the weekend urgings of three people whom I admire and respect. He ended the message with a challenge identical to that of my folks (many thanks to them as well), prompting me to see to a mess that I had left untended far, far too long. And while I started this blog well before this past weekend, it took the prodding of my friends and a message from the Almighty via Erin, to finish it, for I could not do so until I had worked through a mess.

Sarca-who? -- Will You Walk for People Like Me?

2010-08-11T08:02:00.000-05:00

Take a look at my mugshot. Go on. Kind of normal looking, don't you think? Think again. I know, some of you are groaning inwardly: Is she going to write about that? Again?? Well, yes, I am.

Perhaps a week or so ago -- I forget because my days tend to bleed into each other -- I saw a snippet of President Obama on television, announcing a five-year plan for reducing HIV-AIDS. I thought to myself, well, that's nice, but what about me -- and people like me? Then, I had to remind myself that there are lots of people like me who would gladly trade places with me, and properly chastised myself for such a lapse. But, let me tell you about people like me.

People like me have Sarcoidosis. Most times when I mention that in conversation, the reply is "Sarca-who?" and I have to repeat myself: Sar -- coi -- do -- sis. I'm not going to try to explain to you what it is, other than it has been described as a run-away immune inflammatory response. There are a few sources on the web for information, to which I commend you. Just google the word.

So why am I writing about this again -- today???

I just love it when you ask the right question! I want to tell you about the upcoming Annual Janine Sarcoidosis Outreach Foundation Walk for a Cure in October. I ask that if you participate in events of this nature, that you consider participating in this one. It is highly likely that you didn't know Janine; neither did I. However, I had the pleasure to meet her mom -- at least on the phone. At some point, whether during or after Janine lost her battle with Sarcoidosis, her mom, Emma Carroll, started a support group for people with Sarcoidosis. Emma is actively and regularly involved with this group and works hard to promote awareness of this orphan disease.

Speaking of orphans, how many 200-plus-year-old orphans do you know? Yes, it's that old; it's just not that popular. And it is more prevalent than one may think. Perhaps it just hasn't claimed the right person's life. Morbid? Sure. But it is what it is.

Consider that despite the crise de la saison folks are still getting out, enjoying time off, and going about their daily tasks. Just last Saturday on local news, this writer learned of an International Jazz Festival taking place at Discovery Green here in Houston. Saturday was another day of a triple-digit heat index. And the sun precedes such temperatures.

The sun. I love the sun. And not because I need to work on my tan (although I wish it were just a little more uniform as opposed to a plethora of shades of brown). The sun is life-giving. Yes, it can be dangerous when one over indulges, but in proper doses, the sun is a good thing. But not for people with Sarcoidosis. Many of us cannot abide prolonged exposure to sun, or triple-digit heat indices. Most of my time is spent indoors, and I relish the thought of a parking space near the entrance of whatever place I need to visit.

One of the added bonuses that
often accompanies Sarcoidosis, including elevated angiotensin-converting enzymes, which causes high blood pressure. In a roundabout way, that's what prompted this writing. Years ago I divested myself of all prescription medications except one: the pilule du jour for high blood pressure. I have tried many. The current one is a high-dollar thing, labeled with its description and three warnings:

May cause dizziness. One might think why is this problematic -- just take it at bedtime. Well, that would be great, but I have to take it in the morning.

Do Not Use This Medicine If You Are Pregnant Or Plan to Become Pregnant. My first thought: why is the warning capitalized as if it's a title? Am I to look elsewhere for a detailed explanation? My second thought: no problem for me; there'd have to be a Star in the East and one occurrence of that in the history of the world is quite enough.

You Should Avoid Prolonged Or Excessive Exposure To Direct And/Or Artificial Sunlight While Taking This Medicine. My reaction: Duh . . . I cannot think of one "sarcoid" patient who gets to enjoy the sun anyway.

What I'm getting to is this: There is a Sarcoidosis awareness walk in October. I may not be able to come. At the rate our summer is progressing it will be a long time before we have manageable temperatures for outdoor activities. And if I do come, will I be in remission? We'll just have to wait and see. But will you come? Will you walk? For me and people like me?

Reality Check: It's Just a Game, But It's One Man's Life -- and It's His

2010-07-09T17:31:00.000-05:00

Just a note little to all the folks who are livid on the one hand, and those who are ecstatic, on the other hand.

If a team owner wants to get rid of a player, that player is simply put out on waivers, cut or traded. The player has no say whatsoever in the team owner's decision as to the player's disposition.
Before free agency, professional athletes were like slaves. They had no input regarding where they would play. Hats off to Curt Flood, a long forgotten baseball who paid the ultimate sacrifice for professional athletes. I seriously doubt if they even know who he is.
Where a person chooses to work, to the extent that the person has alternatives, is entirely up to him/her.
Obviously everything is not about money. Wouldn't you like to be in a position where your choice of employment does not hinge on the amount of your salary? Evidently Mr. James aspires to win; most likely he can afford to pursue that goal.
Lebron James, though he has generously bestowed upon himself the title of "King," is just one man, living his own life. He should not be construed as a beacon of hope for anything or anyone other than himself and the persons he truly holds dear. That definitely does not include all of his many, misguided fans.

In closing, I wonder if the good folks in Cleveland would be half as upset if King James was really King Jesus, and he chose to set up his throne in Miami. On the other hand, I cannot help but wonder if the good folks in Miami would try to send Him back while still in airspace, or tooling down Highway 95.

July 5: Remembering Glenn Edward Burleigh

2010-07-05T15:59:00.000-05:00

On this day, not nearly enough years ago for him to have gone from labor to reward (perhaps for him, but not for us who are left behind and miss him dearly), a musical giant was born into a family of musicians and ministers. I am not familiar with his folks, but am blessed for having known Glenn Edward Burleigh. And even now, when his soul is at rest, I take great joy and comfort in visiting his music often.

As powerful as it was, Glenn's music was not for everyone. He did not write to be a commercial success. He did not write for the crossover market. He did not write jingles on demand. He wrote for the Lord, to His glory.

There were no national headlines when Glenn passed away -- typical, as society is only shocked into mourning those whose monied lives were sensational, tawdry, messes -- while those who went about the business of living lives worthy of the breath God gave them, fade away as unsung heroes. This cannot happen on my watch, nor the watch of anyone who is blessed by the singing or hearing of works like --

Order My Steps
Well, the Savior is Born
You Shall Be Free Indeed
I'm Gonna Rise
Just Because You're God
What Does All This Mean
You Must Be Like a Child
I Know
That My Redeemer Liveth
Spiritual Medley Jesus Doeth
All Things Well
Agnus Dei

or any number of the many original compositions and hymn arrangements, the notes of which were poured out of the windows of heaven and into the soul of Glenn Edward Burleigh and of which he made a record so as to be preserved for the edifying of the body of Christ, the encouragement of the souls of believers, and the hearing of the Gospel set to music so as to witness to the lost.

I have said before, and say now, that Glenn's music transcends time, generations, races, cultures, denominations, ethnicities, worship styles, and any other barrier that humankind may use to divide us. Rather than exclusionary, Glenn used music to bring us together, to include all at the table. We dare not let it gather dust, go unplayed or unsung. To do so would be to slap God in His face, and tell Him we do not want and we do not appreciate His gifts. I dare not. How about you?