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[NOTE: this is the text of a speech I gave on Thursday, May 15th, just outside Ann Arbor, Michigan at the memorial to those law enforcement officers who fell in the line of duty. This is a revised edition, much closer to the one I actually delivered than the one I posted last night.]

May 15 – Memorial Service for fallen law enforcement officers

 

          In the center of the ancient town of Edinburgh, Scotland, there is a huge outpost of volcanic rock jutting from the earth like a ship freed from the depths. On that rock sits a castle a thousand years old. For centuries, it has been the symbol of who the people were and who they are.

 

          Climb up the long mile to the castle gates and work your way past each successive barrier and eventually you will ascend to an inner courtyard. One entire side of the courtyard consists of an imposing granite wall interrupted by a massive arch. On that arch is carved in block letters: “To the glory of God, and in memory of Scots who fell.”

         

          It is the war memorial of a nation. Walk through that towering arch and you will find the name of every single Scottish soldier who has fallen in one of the scores of Britain’s wars of empire. One red book after another, perched on stone pulpits, approached in silence by those who wish to pray, to point to a name… to remember.

 

          In every Highland village, men answered the call to war and each village has a memorial all its own. Each stands quietly in the center of the village. A simple stone, raised high, with names carved upon it; names of men long gone. There are many, many names for World War One. Fewer names for World War Two. Almost none after that. They spent themselves and emptied their village of young men, never to recover.

 

          In this country, too, citizens raise memorials to the fallen. They cheer those who serve their nation, asking them to stand at ball games, giving them a discount on their cell phone plan or on admission to a park. They are honored… and so they should be! We are a nation at war. We understand war. My father came here and joined the US Navy during the Korean War. He wanted to stand alongside you. My son is a rifleman in the United States Marines. We know war; it is something going on "over there."

 

          But there is another war going on. This war doesn’t take place between insurgents and soldiers, between Shia and Shiite. This is a war on our streets; a war for the hearts, minds, bodies, and futures of our people.

 

          Insidious, creeping, moral rot has entered our nation, its streets, its schools, its media. The siren call to mindless self-worship has been heard, seducing our people to lawlessness, apathy, and worse until their cry mimics the cry of the Roman masses who craved nothing but the lack of responsibility, the lack of effort, and the lack of discipline. Feed us and entertain us, they cried: “Bread and the games.” So Rome sent more and more into the Coliseum and passed out more and more money from government coffers, hoping that the people would become peaceful, productive citizens in return. It didn’t work then. It isn’t working now.

 

          In this war for our very souls, a new kind of warrior emerges. They get far less respect, far less public recognition than their brothers in the armed forces. They are not showered with glory though they deserve that honor just as much as their peers in the military.

 

          They live among us, not on a base. They frequently travel alone, not with a rifle squad. They live in the middle of those who support them and the middle of those who have made themselves millionaires by singing songs encouraging violence against him. 

 

          Every morning, this citizen hero wakes and prepares his or herself for the task at hand. They kiss their spouse and children goodbye, reminding the children to listen to their mother or father, to do their homework… in other words, to be good.

 

          They strap on a gun and a badge. If the department budget is sufficient and the citizens in their area agree to part with the necessary dollars, they pull on body armor under their uniform shirt; a silent acknowledgement of the dangerous task before them. They climb into a car that has just been vacated by another of their ilk – his brother or sister. They are now tasked with keeping the peace, bringing order to the streets. They have an awesome responsibility on their shoulders; more responsibility than authority. Not for them the brute force of the military. They must use persuasion, wise words, polite speech and guidance rather than raw violence. They are citizens, a fellow, a friend, a neighbor. They are one of us.

 

          Those they approach have no such rules governing them. They have no chain of command to whom they must report their words, their decisions, their actions. Into this lopsided contest, comes the law enforcement officer – a symbol of peace, strength, and discipline in a world that gives lip service to such things, but bears no burden to live out what they say they believe.

 

          These everyday heroes risk death by painting themselves as targets every time they don the uniform, drawing the wrath of extremists, of the wild, of the belligerent, of the angry, of the paranoid, of evil men, and even of some in our media or popular culture. They take the abuse and shake it off, knowing that they will return again tomorrow to these same streets.

 

          Except… some don’t. Some can’t. While engaged in actions to make our streets safe and our neighborhoods peaceful, they were run down or gunned down. They – the best of us – were taken from us. Perhaps their murderer was drunk, or on drugs. Perhaps they were mentally ill or confused. While such things matter to newspapers and television talking heads, they don’t matter to the wives, husbands, sons and daughters left behind. We comfort their families by telling them the truth – the one who was taken was the greatest among us.

 

          For we know that those whose names are written here have elevated their lives by giving them away. By losing their lives in service to us, they have given us our lives. Because they got between us and evil, and paid the ultimate price, we are here in the sunshine of a spring day.

 

          We are here today because of dead men. Dead men and women fought for our rights and freedom, crafted our laws, and drafted our Constitution. Because men are dying in fields far away, we can shop, eat, and play. And because men and women are in patrol cars, I can be assured that our roads are safe, people will obey the traffic lights, drive on the right side of the road, and keep their speed to a reasonable standard. I can believe that, and risk my life on that, because others are willing to get between me and those who would break our laws and endanger even my simple commute.

 

          Others of their tribe make sure I am not burgled, robbed, or defrauded. They toil endlessly to find those who would take advantage of their fellow citizens. They hunt down those who sexually abuse our children and remove those evil persons from our communities. They stand between our children and those who would addict them for their own monetary pleasure.

 

          While they do this, they hear complaints. They rarely get discounts at amusement parks. If they accept a free cup of coffee there is always someone lurking nearby, ready to pounce with accusations and slander.

 

          But they do it anyway. Why? As my son grew up, I often told him that, in my experience, only three entities would die for a stranger; even for a stranger who hates them. Dying for a friend is something many of us would do, but to put your life in jeopardy for someone who shrieks abuse at you, waves a weapon at you? Who would do that? Only three: Jesus Christ, the United States Armed Forces, and the men and women of law enforcement. By being in this elite group of three, those who wear the badge are due our highest accolades, our prayers, our support, and our thanks.

 

          Jesus said this: “Greater love has no man than this – than to lay his life down for a friend.” The names on this memorial bear witness to the fact that such love has not perished from the earth. The skirl of the bagpipes and the rows of men in uniform stand in stark contrast to a world that is pathologically self centered. Today, we honor those who were the best of us.

 

          We come to honor those to whom honor is due. To the glory of God, and to the memory of those who fell. Amen.

 

While I’m not sure why anyone else cares… here’s a vacation update: we are saddened to realize that we have to leave our warm corner of the globe. We’ve been on vacation in Edgewater, Florida (just south of Daytona) for almost a week and it has been wonderful. Due to the generosity of one of our members, we have been able to stay in a lovely home right on the intercoastal. We came back in this evening after having great barbecue in town and watched four dolphins playing as close as fifty feet to us as they worked their way north. Sigh. How blessed we are.

The warmth has also meant a respite from aches and pains, allergies, etc. This is truly a wonderful place.

Tomorrow morning, we bid farewell to this house and head over to Orlando. We are taking Duncan and Megan to Sea World for the day. I took my family to the Sea World in Cleveland (actually Geauga Lake but it doesn’t matter — there is no Sea World in the north anymore) when we arrived from Scotland. We love the sea and most of the critters in it. But not all of them. While we played on the beach the last several days we were aware that we were in the shark bite capitol of the US (not the fatal attack capitol — that is somewhere off California I think). It gave us great comfort seeing the dolphins patrolling up and down all day. As long as they were there, we were safe.

Megan wants to see Sea World and as she is our son’s beloved (and she has our heart as well) that is fine with me. We have a hotel in Orlando for tomorrow night, very near the Florida Mall in case they want to walk around after spending all day walking at the park. We catch an 8:30 flight on Wednesday morning and it is back to Detroit!

That night I am to do the fourth in my series "Answering the New Atheists." On Thursday morning, I am to be in Ann Arbor by 10AM to speak at the memorial for fallen law enforcement officers. There will be pipers and rows of men in uniform. It should be quite a sight. I hope I can keep my stiff upper lip while speaking.

That afternoon, it is back to the airport, but this time I am staying and my sweet angel, Kami, is leaving. She is off to see her grandmother, a dignified lady in her late 90’s who lives in an assisted living center in Boise, Idaho. She will spend a week there and then return in time for some surgery. I will keep the homefires burning, not leaving again until I make a quick out-and-back run to Lubbock to speak at Encounter, a youth event. I spoke there last year and was blown away by the quality of the kids, leaders, volunteers, and program. Wow. David Fraze has now moved on and works with Rick at Richland Hills, but he promises to be a part of Encounter again. I am always impressed with David’s work, spirit, and family.

So… the computer goes in the backpack. I might have service tomorrow night but, chances are, I’ll just chill with my peeps in the hotel. And, speaking of "chill," I’ll get out my long trousers and ready myself for cooler temps in the big D, Motown, the Motor City…. Detroit. 

There is no internet access in the place we are staying, so look for more in depth, scintillating, and thrilling stuff later — say, after Thursday. The neighbors just came in and turned on their modem so we are piggy backing long enough to say we are well, loving the sunshine, and thoroughly warm!!! Kami reports that her hands and hips do not hurt — and that is something we never hear in the cold wilds of metro Detroit.

I will absolutely miss Rochester tomorrow. I love that congregation and its elders and staff. It is a remarkable place. We are looking for the best place to attend in the morning. That can be a real hit or miss thing, as I’m sure you know.

Every morning, we walk outside and watch the manatees and dolphins as they play in the intercoastal. It is amazing and wonderful. Duncan and Megan are having a great time, too. We are all much browner than we were a week or so ago.

God bless all there. After I talk to the neighbors, if they don’t mind my using their wireless connection, I’ll write some more. Pray for Josh Graves as he preaches tomorrow at Rochester. I have been asked to pray for a congregation in Texas (I can’t be more specific than that), its leaders, and its future. We have gladly accepted that request and are praying several times a day for them. If any from there read this: fear not. Be strong and courageous for the Lord your God is with you. Your best days are yet in the future and He will take you to them.

I’m told I am to take Kami and Megan to a dress shop immediately, so I must leave. Pray for me, too!

 

With doing series, it is hard to keep you up with fast moving events. So… here’s an update. Taking a cue from That Girl, Kami and I are taking Duncan and Megan to Florida on Thursday. We fly out at 9:30 which means we have to leave the house by 6:15 but that’s all right; we’ll be on the beach by early afternoon. We have a member at Rochester whose mother left them a very nice house in the Daytona Beach area and they offered it to us for a break… a much needed break. I am told we will be able to find wireless access in the area so I hope to update my blogs. We are due back on the 14th. 

I am teaching the third in a series entitled "Answering the New Atheists" at Rochester on Wednesday for Connections, our weekly seeker service. I’ve been amazed at how well this series is going. I was asked to expand it from three to five evenings and have agreed to do so. Tomorrow — Wednesday — I go back to Rochester High School, a very large public school near our building. The teacher has asked me to come and answer the kids’ questions about God, faith, the Bible and Christianity. That is always a lot of fun even though it is quite a huge responsibility to be the one brought in to speak for God. I think this is my fourth or fifth time at this high school. I’ve done the same thing four times at other schools. Sometimes the kids have some inventive, tough questions but the last time it was all softballs. Truth is… I like the tough stuff better. It’s more of a challenge.

When I get back in town, it will be just in time to speak at the memorial for fallen police officers in Ann Arbor. The Michigan State Police honored me by asking me to give the homily alone this year. There will be a piper, rows and rows of law enforcement officers in uniform, and a few tears.

On the beach this next week, I’m sure Duncan and Megan will want to go places and do exciting things. I’ve already got a bag of books packed. Hey, I know how to have fun!

The Rochester church league softball season is off and running. Kami and I went out to watch our daughter, Kara, and Megan play in their first game… only to see them have to forfeit because a few players couldn’t make it due to high school and college graduation parties. Maybe next week! Josh, my son in law and co-minister, rocked the house last Saturday, hitting five huge homers in his game. I’m told (it got cold so I deserted the field and made my way home to my books!) that the balls didn’t just go over the fence — they went over the trees behind the fence. I remember when I could hit like that (no I don’t).

I’ll update as I can.  

There seems to be an interest in the subject of this blog… even though I am very hesitant to write about it. I am in somewhat of a Second Corinthians situation here as tracing my educational career can sound suspiciously like bragging. So…imagine me tugging my forelock, looking down bashfully, and saying "aw, shucks" a lot. Thank you.

When I graduated from Freed, I was 17. Back in high school I had discovered two very wonderful things, one of which had a long history but the other was just beginning to show up on the radar of the educational world. The first was night school. I took class after class at the local community college while I was still a freshman or sophomore in high school. The second was the world of distance education. Back in the early 70’s, distance education was already well established in the UK. The University of London excelled at this (still does) and the entire nation was provided the classes and resources of England and Scotland in the Open University system. In America, distance education was limited to individual courses taken by correspondence from a few accredited universities. The courses were lower or mid-level and that is what I needed at first. Want more in America? You might be in trouble. Degrees via distance education were very rare and almost always suspect. At worst, such degrees came from diploma mills (pay your money and get your degree!) and, at best, they were unaccredited colleges or accredited trade schools (think: hotel management).

The University of Kentucky offered a large slate of correspondence courses for credit. I was hungry for information and mowed lawns to get the money to buy as many courses as I could get. I had no idea this wasn’t normal. A true story might show you how out of the norm I really was (am). When I was four years old, my dad found me sitting on the curb, my feet in the street, with a volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica open in my lap. I was hunched over it in rigid concentration. My father thought that was a funny picture and asked me if I was enjoying reading the book. I said, "yes, sir" so he asked me to read some to him. He dropped his Bible on the driveway when I, to his amazement, did. I don’t know how, but I had taught myself to read. Dad rushed me to be tested and, the next thing I knew I was in first grade. No preschool (rare back then) and no kindergarten for me. I kept seeing my mom and dad in the hallways, learning later that they had been called in for consultations with school administrators. It seemed that I was a problem — reading at a fourth grade level and discontent with the pace of school but far too young to promote. It remained a problem without a solution.

I made my own solution. From the time I was twelve I have read an average of three books a week, fifty two weeks a year. My reading is very eclectic; I love mysteries and thrillers, science of all kinds, history, politics, linguistics, geography, atlases, and, every now and then, a theological tome (not too heavy. Dallas Willard is brilliant, but he makes me scratch my head a lot. N.T. Wright is excellent and John Ortberg is fun). My mailman hates me because of all the Amazon.com packages, but the local Borders and Barnes and Noble bookstores are considering building an altar to me in the humor section.

My high school suggested that I leave them after my junior year. I already had nearly two years of college credit, had read most of the nonfiction books in the library (I’d made two trips through the Great Books of The Western World series put out by my old friend, the Britannica), and had all the high school credits I could use. So… two days after graduating (they let me walk with the seniors), I was on my way to Freed Hardeman. I was an emotional wreck due to our family life and my feeling of "otherness" but I was thrilled to get to put distance between me and everything I’d known. My grades weren’t good at Freed; I just couldn’t get into the "sit down there and listen" style of learning. When the CLEP tests came to campus, I walked in and, in one weekend, tested out of nearly a year of classes. It was time to move on…

Being a teen living on his own, I worked hard to pay for classes and spent most of my spare time in libraries. I worked at radio stations (lots of stories I’ll have to share sometime), loaded trucks with frozen food from an incredibly cold warehouse, mowed lawns, preached when someone would let me fill in on a Sunday, worked as an operating room technician… the list goes on. I didn’t sleep much, rarely had any social interaction (never my strong suit), and got back to books at every opportunity. I kept taking distance courses even while at UAB.

I married Kami as detailed previously (yippee!). While Kami and I had no money, we kept studying. She entered Elizabeth City State University when we worked with my dad at Edenton and then, when we moved to Norfolk, took courses at Old Dominion University. When we got back to Scotland, it was Open University, the University of London, and other British schools. I’m sure I missed a lot. I hear people talk about all the time they spent cruising up and down Main Street (quick joke: what do you have when you’ve got twelve tractors circling the Dairy Queen? Prom night in Texas!) or fishing or playing basketball. I never had buddies and there were only a few people I would call friend, but I had Kami and a hunger to learn that, I feared, might even be pathological.

Sometimes I would read something in a medical or scientific journal and write a response. The response might run to a hundred or more pages, footnoted with a full bibliography. That got me noticed. I started earning credits by reading and writing. That is easy done in Britain. Let me give you a quick and incomplete peek at the UK system (you can google "British Research Doctorates" too). You are tested, write long papers, and go through interviews and a university offers you a slot. You speak to an adviser and, together, you design a degree program. It isn’t set in stone, in other words, like American degrees are. If you want to be an expert on French military history (White Flags 101, How to Run Backwards 151…) you will gather a HUGE reading list of books, papers, and journals, a list of colleges and universities that offer courses on the subject, and a date on which you will be tested. If you pass the test, you are given the next block of papers, resources, and schools. It is up to you to get it done. There are schools — many of them — that are more American in style with set courses and lots of sitting about, but research schools allow you to get it done or fail on your own. Unlike the rigidity I found at Freed and UAB, this was heavenly freedom! My grades soared and so did my output.

I got involved in large scale tests and studies and that is where I found my two biggest talents: I could read thousands and thousands of pages of material quickly and spot the major trends, problems, and benefits found in the data and, secondly, I could summarize it in such a way as to make it clear to nontechnical readers. In other words, I could make hard, icky stuff fun to read or hear about. I am told that is my skill in the pulpit; taking the old stories and doctrines found in scripture and presenting them in a humorous, but powerful, new way. If that is so… cool. I’ll take that.

More later — including a move that nearly became a time bomb in my resume. As for now, I need to do some more reading. And writing. And then read some more. Kami? My beautiful bride is ten feet away from me right now, watching the news… and reading.
 

Fourteen months after I first laid eyes on her, Kami and I were married at the Bear Valley Church of Christ building. Although I had traveled the world and had more stories and adventures than most folk twice my age, I had no clue about social matters. I was also too arrogant to be teachable, I’m afraid. Kami was patience personified and led me through some bits and allowed me to lead in others even though I didn’t have a clue. I bought a suit for $60 at Montgomery Wards — the best suit I had ever owned. I had never heard of people renting clothes for a wedding and the very word "tuxedo" conjured up foppy English aristocratic twits so I wanted nothing to do with those. 

My "best men" were similarly suited. Kami’s mother had some control over the bride’s side of things so they were considerably more elegantly dressed. The church was also done up in every conceivable decoration. I was amazed (and my Scottish nature was appalled) at the expense and complication of it all.

My father flew in to do the ceremony. He met Kami two days before the wedding at the old Stapleton airport in Denver. These were the old days, when you could go to the gate and welcome the passengers as they disembarked. Dad walked right past me and hugged her, telling her that she was loved and accepted, sight unseen. Nice touch, and I appreciated it.

The ceremony itself is a blur to me. I remember one thing most vividly. When the doors swung open and there was Kami in her wedding gown, I felt every major muscle group in my body begin to tremble. She was astonishingly beautiful, to say the least. Thing is, now, nearly 30 years later, that is still how she looks to me.

Afterwards, after the gifts and cake, it was time to go. There weren’t a lot of gifts — Kami’s friends and many of the church members were fiercely opposed to her marrying me and lobbied her extensively against it, refusing to buy gifts or wish us well. Even the day of the wedding, one or two showed up at her house and tried to get her to stop everything. Thank God Kami has a spine of steel and a huge spirit in that sweet frame of hers.

We spent our honeymoon in the Renault LeCar, without air conditioning, driving to the eastern shore of North Carolina. In a massive spasm of poor judgment, I had agreed to work with my father. He is a good man but no Mead has ever gotten a smiley face in the "plays well with others" box. Yet, we had no place else to go at the moment. We spent the first six months of our married life renovating an old abandoned pet shop, turning it into a very useful place of worship for the Edenton, NC church. I have a lot of stories of that time that I’ll have to share sometime…

We lived miles away in a one bedroom apartment in Elizabeth City. It was the upstairs of an old Victorian style home. Our only heat was space heaters and we had a window air conditioner for summer time. We were very poor, but we had each other and that was nicer than either of us had expected it to be. As detailed in the car series I just finished, we lost all our support six month after arriving and were facing disaster. The church that had hired us to work with my father in North Carolina decided to build a Family Life Center. To fund that, they dropped all their missionaries, stateside and foreign. I scrambled for a job. Days from accepting a commission in the military, the church in Norfolk, VA, an hour’s drive north across the VA/NC line, asked me to come preach for them. When we moved into our apartment, we owned a bookcase we had made, a bentwood rocking chair, some kitchen gear, and a borrowed mattress (no box springs or frame). We were in heaven.

Those two years passed quickly. While working with the church, we took time to see the sights from the NATO gardens full of azaleas to the shore, to the Naval bases, museums… anything. The people at Granby Street couldn’t have been kinder to the strange young couple God had brought them. The church grew — even though the Navy kept yanking some of our best away from us every few months, never to be seen again — and we learned how to be married.

Two and a half years after I married my angel, we answered the call from a church in Scotland and crossed the water. Kami wasn’t thrilled with the idea of heading there to live, so far away from her beloved family and Colorado, but she was Ruth personified and gamely went. She immediately fell in love with the nation, the people, the food, the scenery… all of it. She thrived in Scotland. A year later, she gave me the greatest gift I could have ever received — my daughter.

 

Kami — we found out later — doesn’t make the chemical that tells her it is time to give birth. Since the UK has socialized medicine, we never saw the same doctor twice and none of them got to know us or care much about us (beware, people!). Kami went nearly three weeks past her delivery date and would have gone further but my mother flew to Scotland and marched into the hospital, demanding to see who was in charge. My momma is a very, very sweet lady, but she is also Irish and should not be trifled with! They brought Kami in to induce labor the next day. I was preaching a meeting at the tiny Clarkston church in Glasgow at the time, but that wasn’t supposed to be a problem. She was to be induced at 7AM and the birth would be soon enough… except it wasn’t. After some difficulties, Kara didn’t arrive until nearly 7PM. I was then rushed across town, arriving in time to preach the lesson, and then rushed back.

 

There she was, my "dear little girl." That is what we named her — Kara Kaleen. We changed the spelling a bit (Gaelic has no "k") but we knew this was a dear, sweet thing handed to us by God.

We were a family. I’ll spare you a walk through the rest of our lives. Maybe that should go in a book later, but this short series started with a restless night last week when I woke many times and relived the time I met Kami and how we came to be man and wife. Next month we will celebrate three decades together and we have never been happier. The angel from Colorado has worked side by side with me in so many places! Her wisdom has guided me and her stalwart spirit has sustained me. I have told her many times, "without you, I couldn’t do this work. You are the real spirit and talent in this family."

I will take credit for one thing: the kids got their good looks from me. They must have done! Kami’s still got hers! Thanks for letting me tell our story…
 

Again, I am not proud of the fact, but it is true: I was only at Bear Valley to be near Kami. Playing youth minister was merely a ploy, not a calling. Several months into the work, we began dating again — regardless of the elders’ edict — and I knew my time there was limited. I really didn’t want to be a preacher and I hadn’t been in Colorado long enough to qualify for their police academy (my bachelor’s degree was in Criminal Justice/Correctional Counseling). I almost took a job delivering beverages to stores around the area. It was a union job (Teamsters) and would pay me more than my youth ministry (sic) was paying me. Kami advised me against it. She thought I had something to offer God in ministry. I wasn’t happy about it, but I wanted to please her so I stuck it out at Bear Valley for awhile longer.

A lot of our dates were us sitting up at her kitchen table with her doing her homework and me playing my guitar. Just being allowed to spend time with my angel was heaven on earth. Her parents weren’t very happy about how close Kami and I were — and I can’t blame them. I was older than Kami, but not very mature. I had tons of book knowledge but not a lot of common sense. I was a seriously broken individual; that was my family heritage. Kami was from a strong, loving Christian family. Her relatives were members of the church; kind, loving, and sacrificial. Her family was well to do; her father working for Chevron and then Mitchell Energy. If I had been Kami’s parents, I would have hired a hit man to take care of their "Scottish problem."

One night, as Kami worked on some classes she was taking from Arapaho Community College (she took those concurrently with her senior year in high school), I wondered aloud if our kids would have green eyes. She merely smiled. That was enough for me! The wheels in the junkyard of my mind began turning.

About a year after I first met her, I thought it was time to seal the deal. I wanted to buy her a ring and pop the question, but I had a crushing lack of funds. If it hadn’t been for the Pup ‘N Taco across the street from me (three hot dogs or four tacos for a dollar) I would have starved to death. I had a plan. If Kami was more important to me than anything else in the world, it was time to act on that. I started selling my books to the students at the Bear Valley School of Preaching and selling everything else I could to neighbors. In short order, I was left with only a mattress on the floor, a few dishes, a couch that was so horrible I couldn’t give it away, a rifle (hey, we’re talking Patrick, here. Weapons WILL be in the area), and some toiletries. That was it. Everything else — except my 12 string guitar — was now history. I had a large stack of ones and fives from my month of divestiture. It was time to go to a jeweler’s store.

Remember Service Merchandise? It used to be a huge deal with large stores and a nationwide catalog service. That is where I went to find rings for Kami. I found one — much smaller than she deserved — and purchased it. When it came time to pay, I started laying down the ones and fives all along the counter. About twenty feet later, the ring was mine and I only had a few dollars in my pocket to live on for the next two weeks. That was okay.

Her parents accepted the inevitable. They helped me find out what size ring Kami wore so I could have it sized properly. They arranged to be gone the night I was coming over to propose. It was a very stormy night with howling wind and lashing rain as I pulled up to her house in my Renault LeCar. I went up to the door and rang the bell.

Nothing.

I rang it again.

Nothing.

I rang it again, and again, standing there soaked to the skin. She was supposed to be there! Her parents had helped me set this up!

Finally, the door eased open. She was there, wrapped in a bathrobe. She’d been taking a bath and wasn’t about to come open the door until some idiot kept pressing the button, refusing to leave! She was surprised to see me, but let me in. I waited downstairs while she changed. I don’t really remember how I proposed. I hear all these elaborate, beautiful stories with a huge set up and…. well, I feel Kami missed out on all that. All I can remember is that she said "yes" immediately and we were now engaged. We didn’t pick out a date that night, but we knew we wanted to be married soon.

I also knew I couldn’t stay at Bear Valley. My ministry was in the toilet (entirely, 100% my fault, by the way. Please don’t allow any of this to be a reflection on that congregation) and I wanted to get out of there before the elders started buying barrels of tar and feathers. Also, Kami’s father, who had always struck me as a borderline pacifist, had just bought a gun and made sure I’d seen it. I wasn’t worried. It was a 10 gauge shotgun. I knew if he shot that, there’d be something dead on both ends of the gun.

But where could I go? How could I take care of this beautiful girl who meant the world to me (and still does!)?

The love story continues… part two…

It might help to know where I was at this stage in my life. I left home right after I turned sixteen and got as far away as possible. My sisters had left before me, jumping into marriages or jobs that would get them out of our home (each ended very, very badly). I had already graduated from high school and had a year of college under my belt (by taking courses at night and during the summer) by that time and so I got to Freed-Hardeman as a sophomore, aged 16. A year later, I graduated and moved to Birmingham. I worked as an Operating Room Technician as I went to UAB full time, preached on the weekends, and searched for mental stability. It wasn’t easy. We had not been allowed to think or make any decisions for ourselves. All conflict was considered sinful… as was about everything else. Of all the kids, I might have been the most messed up and I knew it.

I tried to cover with bravado, with over achievement, and with the same kind of legalism that poisoned my family. You would think I would have left that behind but we were so well indoctrinated that we lived as strangers in a strange land. Even after escaping the physical orbit of our home, we were captured by it mentally, socially, and spiritually.

By the time I met Kami, I had been on my own for five years. I was lonely. My heart had been shattered over the loss of a girl I loved about a year previous to this time. It was clear that I would never see her again and while I wanted to move on, the question was "move on where?"

Kami went with me to every night of the meeting. On our first night I had a tire blow out and I was amazed at how sanguine she was; she just adapted to whatever came. During the meeting, the songleader led a song that my father had taught us not to sing (there were quite a few of those). I sat quietly during the song and noticed that Kami didn’t sing, either. She had nothing against the song; she was just taking my lead. Wow. Amazing. She owned me from that point on.

But the week ended and I had to return to Alabama. She might not have fallen for me but I had fallen Big Time for the Angel from Colorado. When I got back, I called her from time to time and we talked — for more than one minute (I’d learned my lesson). Back then, boys and girls, phone calls were expensive things. More than once, I had a $200 phone bill and I was only making $175 a week. That was okay. I didn’t need to eat, but I needed to hear her voice.

All right people, I’m not proud of this next bit. I made a decision to live my life out loud several years ago and to be open about the things in my life I wish weren’t there so, here goes… About a month and a half after I returned to Alabama, I got a letter from the Bear Valley Church of Christ. They were looking for a youth minister and Kami’s dad asked them to get in touch with me and see if I knew one. Over the next three weeks, utilizing a couple more letters and two phone calls, I convinced them that I was a great candidate for them — the perfect man to be their youth minister.

Fact was, I had no clue. None. Zip. They would hire me and promptly regret it. I had never been at a church with a youth minister (my father was against them), never studied youth ministry I’m not sure I had even met a youth minister in my entire life. But if this was my ticket to Colorado and Kami, I wanted the job.

Frankly, I stunk at the job. Most of the kids liked me, but they knew I was in way over my head. Hard as this might be for you normal folk to understand, I was raised to bluff my way through and to never show weakness or ask for help. That trapped me. I didn’t know how to do the job and I couldn’t ask for guidance, read a book, or admit I needed help. (no wonder I later became a shrink… I knew I needed one. It’s okay now. I’m there for me)

To make things even more difficult, the elders called me in a couple months after I got there and expressly forbade me from dating Kami. She was a member of the youth group and it just wasn’t acceptable. Kami was upset, as was I, but I was once again trapped. I had been raised to look upon elders as God’s representatives — like an Italian nun would view the Pope. To disobey them was to guarantee hellfire in my future.

I tried to obey. I am ashamed to say that I did not have the power to stand up to them and tell them the truth about myself and then walk out, get a secular job, and date Kami. Instead, I borrowed her strength. She called me one night and told me to come over. We needed to talk. It wasn’t a request! I went over and she let me know what she thought about all of this and told me to make a decision.

I decided that she was more important to me than anything else. Although I feared I was disappointing God, I couldn’t disappoint Kami anymore. We continued to date. The elders eventually gave up, although only a couple were happy for us.

I had been told that I would be paid $1000 a month plus my rent, but when I got there I found out the deal had been changed. I was paid $800 (no insurance, no budget for youth work, no office supplies…) and I would have to pay my own rent. "Poor" doesn’t begin to describe my condition, but I would eat bologna sandwiches for supper every day and cereal every morning and lunchtime so that I would have ten dollars for the weekend to take Kami to a movie. Many of our dates were me going to her figure skating lessons and watching her on the ice for an hour or two. She was an angel on the ice. She still is.

Our situation, though, was untenable. My failure as a youth minister was obvious to all. I think Ray Charles even commented on it. Something would have to give. We would have to make a decision and make it soon.

That story, next time… 

My allergies are are a war footing as Michigan’s air has filled with blooms, blossoms, mold, and ick resulting in a night where I slept in fits and starts. Throughout the night, for reasons that I can’t quite explain, I kept reliving the time I met the dear girl who would become my wife. Allow me to share…

I was in the last few months of my Bachelor’s degree work at the University of Alabama in Birmingham. I had been preaching at a little church south of Birmingham and I wasn’t doing well. The girl I thought I would marry went through some bizarre personality changes and, eventually, her family kept her from me. Her father had died young with a brain tumor and that was also her fate. I wasn’t allowed to be a part of it. I was never told where she was or what happened to her.

I crawled my way through those last classes, mourning my loss and trying to get up the energy to stand up on the weekend and speak of Jesus. It didn’t help that the little church was run by an old family that didn’t like me much. When they disagreed with me (which was often) they would call me a Yankee even though, being a Scot, I wasn’t sure that applied to me.

Knowing I needed to get away, my sister asked me to come out and visit with them. Her husband was attending the Bear Valley School of Preaching in Denver, Colorado. I had never been to Colorado and thought I might go visit them one day, but a letter arrived out of nowhere asking me to come preach a gospel meeting for a little church one hour north of Denver and that settled the deal. I was on my way. I had never been asked to preach a meeting before and I knew no one in Colorado. To this day, I have no idea how all this came about.

I drove my 1976 Celica to Denver and arrived to find my sister and brother-in-law packing their car. They were going camping for a few days and wanted me to come with them. There was plenty of time to camp for three or four days, come back to Denver, and then go preach my meeting. I didn’t want to go camping, but I had nothing else to do so I went. On the long drive up into the Rockies I found out that my sister had planned all this so that I could meet a girl she thought was perfect for me. I was being set up.

Finally arriving at a place with less than basic amenities about an hour off the last paved road we’d traveled, we pitched the "four man tent" my brother in law had purchased. It was so tiny that the three of us laid down and filled the entire floor. It was WAY too friendly a tent but, luckily for us, it wasn’t waterproof so we were constantly refreshed by drops of rain and dew during the night. We woke up with frost and ice in our hair.

The girl my sister picked out for me was a very nice girl. She was a single mother from a Christian home and she played guitar. I didn’t mind the "mother" thing and she was pretty, but she was also someone who had been hurt enough that she stayed cool throughout the weekend. I thought she didn’t like me at all. I found out later that she did, but didn’t know how to try again. She has since happily married and is doing great, I’m glad to report. My sister had another girl picked out for me, too, but I wasn’t interested (and she probably wasn’t either).

I resigned myself to being cold and wet for a few days. I loved the scenery and the first girl and I grew to be guitar buddies. One night I pulled out my 12 string Alvarez Yairi and she pulled out her six string and a group of us sat around a fire singing songs such as "Me and Bobby McGee" and John Prine’s "Paradise." While we were doing that, a big truck came in pulling a trailer behind it, setting up camp fifty feet away, right in my line of sight.

A comical figure emerged. He was a tall man wearing a yellow hooded slicker way too small for him over jeans with cowboy boots. My first thought was "Big Bird goes to Austin." Shortly afterwards, a tall, beautiful girl came out and talked to him for awhile.

I was stunned. It was like all my birthdays had come at once. She was not only beautiful and graceful, she shone with a special spirit that I could feel all the way across the dirt road and ravine that separated us. She and her family joined the singing circle after awhile and I found out that they, too, were members at Bear Valley. Big Bird was a deacon there and the Angel (that is how I thought of her and it is still what I call her today) was his daughter.

 

My sister saw how my fingers started fumbling and how I couldn’t quit stealing glances over at Kami. That night she asked if I would be interested in meeting her. For a Scottish girl, my sister makes a great Jewish matchmaker. I turned down her help and just made sure I got over to say hello the next day. Kami and I even went for a walk — pure heaven! We couldn’t have been more different. She was 17 and I was 21. She was a junior in high school and I had graduated from Freed Hardeman (it was a two year school back then) four years earlier. While we were only four years apart, we were from different generations, places, and backgrounds. Her family was well to do (but modest and generous) while mine was dirt poor and always had been. Bear Valley was very conservative… but not conservative enough for my father. It should have ended there. Her mother told her not to hang around me — I was too old for her. She had a point. I was older, but Kami was the wiser, the more mature of the two of us (still is).

Back in Denver, I screwed up my courage and called her, asking if she would go with me the next night as I preached at the little church an hour away. She said yes and I thanked her and hung up. The entire phone call lasted less than a minute. She told me much later that she stood there and stared at the phone for awhile wondering what kind of person made a date like a British commando — get in, do your job, and get out!

She ended up going with me all but one night of the meeting. And we are still together now, thirty plus years later. I’ll pick up this story from here very soon… 

Now that the car thing is done… 

Last Friday I flew from Detroit to Chicago, switched planes, caught a flight to Denver and then on to Albuquerque. Southwest tends to route the same plane around a lot! Never having flown Southwest, this came as a bit of a surprise to me, especially when the pilot announced that our flight time to Denver would be…. Denver? I was going to Albuquerque (a French word meaning "bad speller"), not Denver! Then he said, "…continuing on to Albuquerque, Phoenix, Burbank, Oakland, and Timbuktu (I made that last one up). Ahh…. I got it.

Southwest doesn’t let you pick out a seat ahead of time. That would be too easy. Instead, when you get your boarding passes there is a letter (A, B, or C) and a number between 1 and 12,275 (okay… 50). My number was B 48. I wanted to yell "bingo" but since I wasn’t in a Catholic Church I thought it might not be appreciated. Boarding really isn’t that chaotic once you learn the system. On the way back, a member of the church who works for Southwest got me a lower number and that kept me from having to sit in the middle from Albuquerque to Chicago (via Sao Paulo). Thanks!!!

As we came into Albuquerque I was amazed by the size and beauty of Sandia Mountain. Never having been in New Mexico before, I didn’t know they had mountains. My ignorance can be rather impressive sometimes, don’t you agree? I looked down and I wondered aloud if we had diverted to the moon. The sea of browns below was completely unbroken by swaths of green. Buddy, I thought I knew brown before but THIS was brown. On the ground and out the door, greeted by one of the elders and whisked away, I got my first glance of Albuquerque. Know what? I loved it. There was a real beauty to the desert, the mountains, and the stucco buildings and homes that frankly surprised me.

I was there to do a youth rally — Spiritual Explosion — at the Riverside Church of Christ. Kids came from all over New Mexico, West Texas, and Colorado, filling the building. Used to having 200-250 on Sundays, the workers seemed delighted to see an overflow crowd. This will be the biggest youth event most of these kids will ever be able to attend. Some will get to Lubbock for Encounter (I’m speaking there one night this year) but most will grow up in smaller churches all over the southwest. I was impressed by the kids. I am always — always — surprised when kids react well to me. I am not very cool, am over 50, and way too attached to my Hawaian shirts, but… we had a great time together.

The adults at Riverside can’t be praised enough for the way they stepped up to make sure every kid had the best spiritual and social experience of their lives. Every elder and tons of men and women worked tirelessly. I was impressed. I spoke once to the kids on Friday night, gave a two hour class to adults and youth workers on how to relate to teens on Saturday morning, and spoke twice more to the kids that afternoon and evening. The next morning I sat through a very good class given by one of Riverside’s young men (and our MC for the weekend. Thanks, Tim) before I preached the morning lesson. Volunteers once again snapped into action and got me to the airport in time to get a new bingo number for my flight home.

I will have to return to New Mexico sometime and spend some time exploring the cities and petroglyphs. I thank God for the Riverside church, for the teens, and for the fact that I’m still allowed to be a part of rallies like this.