Anniversary Waltz

Well, it was 58 years ago this January night. There was about ten inches of snow on the ground. Louisville, Kentucky snow. The streets were icy. My, my was it cold. But a whole lot of crazy people braved the elements and gathered in the Beechmont Baptist Church for our wedding. 

I don't really think that semi-snowy blizzard was a foretaste of things to come. Moments, yeah--but not the marriage. The blizzard never lasted. The snow melted and the sun came out again. 

But she has been a trooper. Still hanging on for dear life after six churches and, I think nine interims. Again and again she kept saying: "You'll get through this...Everything will work out." Huh? She was right. Once after I had resigned a church without a place to go. I was way, way down. I was 55 years old and kept moaning: "I'll never get another church." And she looked at me as if I had lost my mind. I knew that look--I had seen it often in moments of crisis. But she kept saying (more than once) :"You will get another church. You're good. You will do it again." And that kept me going. 

One dark time she came home with a package. "I have something for you." I pulled the wrapping paper off and it was a large hand-carved angel--pretty heavily endowed to say the least. She said: "I figured that you needed an angel at this time in our lives." We hung it in the kitchen over the sink--and through the years and moves the angel came with us--always hung over the kitchen sink. But, you know--I hope I don't sound too corny but the angel is not just hanging over the sink--but she is everywhere in the house and she has kept things going again and yet again. 

The first book I ever wrote I dedicated it to her: "To Gayle--who has taught me best: the bridge really is love." And over so many bridges of troubled waters she has been there and it has made all the difference. She believed in me and the kids and whatever crazy things might have been happening. In the church we call that faith.

After I retired for the first time (of many) we took a trip to Paris with some friends. We had never been there. And in our room one night, overlooking that wonderful city I asked her: "Did you think we would ever come here?" And that have-you-lost-your-mind look came. "Of course," she said, "I know all along we would someday get here."

Of course it hasn't all been bleak and downers. Not by a long shot. She has made the trip worthwhile. And it has been fun--mostly I think because of her. 

Ands so 58 years later I am a very lucky guy. One night she took that tiny diamond and put it on her hand and said: "Yes." She never prayed in public. She never led the charge in any church we had. She would not make a speech if you put a gun to her head. She despised piousity in any form--especially from her hubby. And rightly so. But she is the best Christian I know. She doesn't talk it. But to use a hackneyed depression: she walks it day after day church after church.

And so I am thankful for all these years. Simon and Garfunkel had a song years ago called: "Still crazy after all these years." And when I heard it first I thought of her...and after everything she still is crazy. Wonderfully crazy after all these years.  

As Loren Eiseley said of his wife of many years: "She has been here through it all. She stayed." And that's my small tribute to a very great lady. My wife--and I'll keep her forever. That is, despite those strange are-you-crazy looks she still will put up with me. If I ever wrote another book the dedication would read:

                                               Gayle.....Gayle.....Gayle

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Dr. King--I Hope We Still Have A Dream

photo by ehpien / flickr

I’ve been reading Michelle Obama’s book about her journey. It is called Becoming. And I recommend the book to everybody. She tells her story of growing up with her father and mother and brother in Southside Chicago. Her world was mostly black. Her parents never owned a house while she was growing up. They lived in the second story of her Aunt’s house. Hey father and mother took what jobs they could get—but were determined that their children would have a better chance than they had. 

Michelle takes us into the lives of black folk in the 1960’s. The amazing thing is that those reading discover that her family was just like us. Growing up I thought that maybe black people were just different and strange. I never thought that they had hopes and dreams like the rest of us. The only black folk I knew was the fine lady that kept us while my parents both worked named Nancy. My father got her a job in the mill where he worked—and after long hours there she would work for us part-time. She had five children, I think. And they lived in a tiny Alabama house where their grandparents took care of them while Nancy worked in Georgia and sent money back when she could. I don’t know what her dreams were but I do know she was loyal and loved us fiercely. When my Mother died she stood over the casket and cried and sat with our family for the service. 

photo  by Gage Skidmore / flickr

The only other black person I knew was named Shine. I never knew his full name. He worked in our barber shop around the corner shining shoes. My, my how he could make those shoes sparkle. We knew little about him except he was so proud of his wife who was a nurse. They had no children. He would even come by people’s houses, pick up their shoes and polish them and bring them back and set them on our porches. I never wondered about his life outside the barber shop. I do remember years later his wife left him for somebody else and that must have crushed him. I heard in his latter days that he started drinking heavily. But he worked hard. He loved us. He was faithful. And I don’t know how in the world he lived on those dimes and quarters we gave him for shining our shoes. 

My first real understanding of what black folks in Georgia were facing was the day I rode a city bus from downtown to my home. Mid-way there a black woman got on the bus and sat in a couple of seats back of me. Somebody told the bus driver that she was sitting “in our seats” and not the back of the bus. The bus driver looked back and told her to move. She just sat there. He said it a second time and as she sat people all over the bus murmured. So the bus driver stopped the bu and came back there furious. He said, “Nigger you can’t sit here—you gotta move back.” I was furious. And about 16 at the time. I turned around and said: “Well maybe if you would talk to her like she was a human being she might move.” Whew. Things got tense. She did move back and the bus went on it’s way. But that experience opened a door that I never knew existed. 

Nancy Fears and my daughter

Since then we have come a long, long way. But these last few years I’ve worried about the cruelty and mean-spirited I see almost everywhere. I don’t know where it came from. Maybe it has always been here just below the surface. Mr. Trump has not helped us move further down the road to liberty and equality to all.  

We still have a long way to go. But Michelle Obama’s book about her journey and her struggles is worth reading. There are a whole lot of folk out there—white and black and many-colored—who could do wonderful things if they just had a chance. And that’s our job in the church and in every part of society. 

The great King’s birthday today calls us back to being better people, kinder people knowing that we all are the same really. I think about black Nancy and Shine and that whole cadre who lived outside the wall of our lives. On our better days we have been told that here everybody has a chance. Everybody is the same. Not just "people like us."

Martin Luther King’s dream still is a challenge to us all:

“I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and there sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi a state of sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that may four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but buy the contents of their character.

I have a dream.”

Tell me people do we still have that dream?

photo of Selma by Christa Lohman /flickr


--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

What Are You Gonna Do With Your Wild and Precious Life?

photo by Amelieu Bayle / flickr

Since this is the beginning of the year—I thought I might talk to you about rules. I know, I know this sounds like maybe (as My son used to say) “the most boringest thing” we could deal with. But bear with me  and let’s see that I’’m trying to talk about.

In one of the Peanuts cartoons Charlie Brown and Peppermint Patti are seated under a tree. And she asks Charlie Brown: “Do  you know any good rules for living, Charlie?” And so Charlie begins to give her this advice. “Good rules—Hmm. Keep the ball low; don’t leave your crayons in the sun; use dental floss every day; don’t spill the shoe polish. Always knock before entering; don’t let the ants get in the sugar; always get your first serve in.” Patti said, Huh? Will those rules give me a better life, Charlie?”

There are whole lot of rules out there that will not give us a better life. And if you have lived as long as most of us have—we know a whole lot of things we have tried ended us up on a dead end street. 

And yet we can’t forget the rules especially in this day and age. Somebody asked a little boy about rules. He said, “Rules. There are ten kids in our family and one bathroom—you gotta have rules.”

So what are we talking about. Mary Oliver, a very fine poet has written: “Some instructions for life. Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it. She just died this week but this was part of her last will and testament.

First, Pay attention. And you and I know this is not easy. We seem to be covered up  in distractions—and they are about to suffocate was all. Breaking News. 24 hours a day—I doubt it. And if we spend most of our times reacting too all this stuff we hear every day we may just miss it all. 

We’ve got to open our eyes and just look at what is going on around us. Wendell Berry has a poem called: “Look Out Your Window” at what was going on. Not Fox News or MSNBC. Your window. The Hispanic guys building a house across the street—and listening to their music. Having a great time. The couple walking down the street with their dog. I heard a bird sing somewhere out there. The sky was a little cloudy and the weather was nippy—but it was a brand new day to be opened up like a present. The woman battling cancer down the street I see her leaving her house—carefully walking down the steps with her husband. And thought she had the oxygen line in her nose…and she had battled cancer for a long time—she started walking down the street. She looked around and I heard her say: “When are they gonna pick up all these leaves?”

Brooks Adams was once Ambassador to Greet Britain. He kept a diary all his life. And one early entry said: “Went fishing with my father. Most glorious day of my life.” The father kept a diary. And on that day he wrote: “Went fishing with nay son—a day wasted.” 

When you are as old I am I look back and know that most of the fretting and fuming over many things I didn’t seem to have time to look out the window. And I missed so much. 

Every time I hear Fats Domino singing: “It’s  Wonderful World” I get a lump in my throat. Wee all need to stop and look. All that was going on—and we shouldn’t miss it. Mary Oliver’s first point was pay attention.

Her second point: Be astonished. Remember old Moses standing in the desert tending his sheep. And a bush began to burn and a voice spoke and said: “Take off your shoes Moses you stand on holy ground.” He was utterly astonished—and it was a hinge-turning point in his life.

Remember what Gomer Pyle used to say: “Surprise…surprise.” How long has it been since you said: “Wow” over something.  Not very long. 

Last Monday night I sat before the TV with a nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach. Could we possibly win? And when it was over and everybody was turning flips—and that tired black football player had tears running down his face—I said: “Wow.” And you did too. And on Saturday we had a chance to link our wows together. It was something.

But let’s not confine our wows to just sports. Usually when lightning strikes it comes at some ordinary time when we least expect it. One day one of my staff members asked me: “Have you ever heard of a Gravy File?” I said, “What?” “And she answered: “Take this Manila folder—wrote Gravy on the top—and begin to put in it all things that lifted you up and made you glad.” And I did that. And folks—I don’t do it often—but sometimes when I am down in the mouth and I think the world is going hell—I remember that file. It’s full and running over. Funny birthday cards. Little notes from my kids when they were young. Obituary notices about people that helped change your life. The biggest Christmas card I ever received was from a woman in Memphis. She was a Muslim with her hijab on her head. She was a brand new in town. She had come all the way from Iraq. Her son came to one of our great hospitals because he had leukemia. And she knew no one and was terrified. I just listened and made a few phone calls. I didn’t do all that much. But she kept coming back and talking to this Baptist preacher. And two years later I got this huge Christmas card and the only thing she wrote on the inside was: Thanks and her name. I don’t know what happened to her or her son. She went back to Iraq before 9/11. I hope they were safe. We’ve all got a gravy file one way or the other. 

Somebody said there are all kinds of wows. Some are Lower case but some are Upper Case. You know what I am talking about. Those moments when about all you could say is “Wow.” Be astonished, she said. 

Third point.  Mary Oliver said: Tell about it. I remember a friend of mine who was visiting the hospital one night. And down the hall there came this young man running and laughing and saying: “Over and over…I’ve got a boy! I’ve got a boy!” Tell about it.

I have this black buddy in Birmingham that was in my church. His name was Bill. He stood at the door every Sunday and welcomed everybody. "Welcome to Church," he would say, "God loves you and we love you." After I retired later I was serving as Interim Pastor at a nearby church. And Bill heard about me being there. And every Sunday after Bill got through ushering at his church he wold come over to this church where I was working and pass out bulletins. He said the same thing to those coming in the door of this church, too. "Welcome to Church. God loves you and we love you." The members didn't know who this strange black man was giving out bulletins. "Who is he?" And one of the members said: "Oh, he's as friend of Roger's." Bill called me this last week. He is 99 years old and still giving out bulletins at his church. Now he has to sit in a chair but he is there every Sunday. And people would tell me: "I don't remember what you said--but I remember what Bill said when we came to church: 'Welcome to church! God loves you and we love you."

Now we don’t have to do that. But instead of playing this: “Ain’t it awful” game—which we all do. But the people we want to be around are positive people. And we can’t get away fast enough from those people that just moan. That’s not telling about it. Or not telling the right thing. 

But remember we can tell in a whole lot of ways. And just the way we look out at our world—says a whole lot. That’s a telling too. You probably have heard the slogan. “Preach the gospel—when necessary use words.” 

For most of the telling we do is not with our mouths—but with who we are. And we can tell what’s genuine and what’s not.

When I was a green college student from this little cotton mill village in Georgia I had a chance to visit New York for the first time. I’ve got a picture of me that somebody took. I was at the top of the Empire State Building with a smile covering my face. I went to my first Broadway play that week-end. And it was called Inherit the Wind. And it was about the monkey trial in Dayton, Tennessee. And I remember hearing something that I have never forgotten. And I looked up the play and wrote the words down later.

“That was the name of my first long shot. Golden Dancer. She was in the big sided window of the general store in Wakeman, Ohio. I used to stand out in the street and say to myself, ‘If I had Golden Dancer, I’d have everything in the world  I wanted.’ I was seven years old, and a very fine judge of rocking horses. Golden Dancer had a bright red mane, blue eyes, and she was gold all over, with purple spots. When the sun hit her stirrups she was a dazzling sight to see,. But she was a week’s wages for my father . So Golden Dancer land I always had a plate glass window between us. But—let’s see, it wasn’t Christmas; must’ve been my birthday—I woke up in the morning and there was Golden  Dancer at the foot of my bed!  Ma had skimped on the groceries, and my father’s worked nights for a month. I jumped into the saddle and started to rock—and it broke! It split in two! The wood was rotten, the whole thing was put together with spit and sealing wax! All shine, and no substance! Bert, whenever you see something bright, shining, perfect-seeming—all gold, with purple spots—look behind the paint! And if it’s a lie—show it up for what it really is!”

And so we’re through. Pay attention Be astonished. Tell about it. I do believe these rules just might change all our lives.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Clemson Got a Victory--We all need a Victory!

photo courtesy of clemsunivlibrary / flickr

We’ve all been a little punch drunk over what happened in Santa Clara. It was a great game. And seeing the huge black Football player, Christian Wilkins with tears coursing down his cheeks said it all. And that was followed with the Parade back home and the almost filled-up stadium. It was a great time. And I’ve been thinking about that victory. And one of the wonderful things about that night was that some of those guys had never had many victories in their lives. Dirt poor. Raised by a single Mama or a Grandmother. Having so little—some of the guys experienced victory for the first time. And that ought to be celebrated. 

But it nudged me to thinking—we all need a victory. Everyone of us. And you wouldn’t be here today unless somebody cheered you on and helped make it happen. 

So I have been looking back over the years at some of those that helped me find a victory. They helped open the door and it never really closed after that. Somebody or a whole lot of somebodies said: You can do it. You can do it. 

As a little boy I got down many days. And I was sitting at the kitchen table one morning moaning about just about everything. And the black woman that worked with us part-time came over said;”Mr. Roger quit crying. Just your wait! Just you wait! "I don’t know how many times she did that. But when I wrote the first book I ever wrote—I sent her a copy and inscribed it: “Nancy—you kept saying'Just you wait!" You were right.” When she died I spoke at her funeral in Hurstboro, Alabama. And I told that story to a sea of mostly black folk that day--Nancy was right, I told them,  Just you wait! It is a word for us all. 

Coming out of that cotton mill village, riding the school bus about ten miles to the country school—we had very little. And nobody in my family had ever gone to college—many didn’t finish high school. Like my parents they came out of the Depression where they had to leave school in the seventh or eighth grade and helped their families mostly on the farm. But there was a Journalism-Spanish teacher—short, fat and divorced—which didn’t happen much back then. But she took a shine to me and about the tenth grade she started saying “Have you thought about going to college?” Well…not much. But she  kept nudging me until I started checking out schools and finally found one and went off to college. And it was a great experience when more doors opened than I knew were possible. And my Mama, working in the mill, sent me fifteen crumpled dollars every week to live on. And about once a month a homemade cake would come in the mail. 

There was a women in our town named Birdie. Went to church with me. And when she was little she fell into a fire and was hopelessly scarred and her eyes especially were affected. She could hardly see. And she worked in a knitting mill. And she pulled me aside one day after church and said: “You’re going off to college and I want to help.” And she out of her little paycheck took money and helped pay for my tuition. 

And in my first church 25 and green as a gourd—I was way out in the country—and the church was hard on preachers.  At least it seemed that way. And I didn’t know if I could pull that off or not. And I’d go down the road—Alternate 54 in  Philpot, Kentucky and sit on Mr. John ’s porch and pour out my frustrations. He’s sit there smoking his little pencil thin cigars and didn’t say much. And then he said: “I’ ve been around here for a long time and seen a lot of preachers come and go. We can be hard on you Reverends. But let me tell you something. You are doing a good job and you are gonna make it.” And it helped.

And at every juncture there was somebody or more than one somebodies who said: You gonna do it. You are gonna make

photo courtesy of clemsonunivlibrary / flickr

it. And I guess I did because I wouldn’t be standing here today without a whole lot of people that stood on my sidelines and cheered me on. 

And as I watched the game the other night and watched tears streaming down Christian's face I thought to myself we all need a victory. And you wouldn’t be here today unless somebody out there whispered in your ear—you’re gonna make it. And if you have had any victories—and you have—it is because of all those folks that made it happen for you. Yep—everybody needs a victory. And I don’t talk about this to make myself look big and important. But I do it so that you will stir up your own memories and imaginations and know that without them you could never have made it. 

Nobody is self-made. And those that think they are are not the kind of people we want to be around. 

Somebody asked a social worker who worked with a lot of troubled down and out people. Hard job. And he’d done it for a long time—and didn’t make a lot of money. And one of his friends said: “Why do you keep doing this? It just seems impossible. Everybody you work with is so needy and their lives are so messed up. Why do you do this?"  And the man said: "The only way I can get up and come to work is that I rejoice in the smallest of victories." 

The smallest of victories. They are all around us. And if all we do is play this: “Ain’t it awful game” —and things are a mess. But if we open your eyes to the smallest of victories around us—and remember some of our own—it changes the whole picture. 

So I guess our job is to just pass on what has happened to us. We all can be part of somebody else’s victory. I think about all those twisted terrible people that took a gun at Sandy Hook and Charleston and Las Vegas and all those other places. More than we just about count. But I think most of them fell through the cracks. Because they never had a single victory in all their lives. Mostly loners. Kept to themselves. Many from screwed-up families. I think some victories in their lives would have made a difference. 

I know a lot of us are retired but that doesn’t mean we cannot reach out and help somebody else. There are a whole lot of people out there hanging on by their fingernails that need somebody to pat them on the back and say you can make it.

Little Clayton was going to have a birthday and his parents asked him what kind of a party he wanted. And he said: "Why don’t we let everybody dress up like Kings and queens." And his Mama said: “ How would that work?"  "Well we’d get crepe paper and make some cloaks. And we’d get some sticks for scepters. And we’d get some paper and help everybody that comes make a crown. It’ll be great.” Well—that’s what happened. The kids came and they dressed up and they took their stick scepters and made their crowns and put them on. And after Clayton had opened all his presents and the lighted the candles on his cake—his Daddy said: “Now make a wish.” And he did. And then they decided to have a parade and they marched up and down the streets dressed like kings and queens. 

That night before Clayton went to sleep his Mother came in and said: “It was a great party.” And Clayton smiled. And his Mama said: “You made a wish when you blew out your candles—want to tell me what you wished?” And he said, “I wished that everybody in the whole wide world could be a king or a queen.”

It’s a big, big wish—and maybe we can’t change the world but we can help somebody out there discover a victory they never, ever had.

 

photo by Tyler Howell / flickr

(I made these remarks at the Sertoma Club in Central, SC, November 14.)

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Hey--Despite the darkness--the Light is still here

photo by raymondclarkeimages / flickr

Of all the seasons of the Christian year—one of my favorites is Epiphany. We Baptists don’t know much about the word—but we know about the light it talks about. In tiny clapboard churches and high-steeple places people have come into their houses of worship hoping, hoping that somehow they could make it through all the things they brought with them. They all came hungering for the light. And they found the Epiphany light over and over even though they did not know the word.

Epiphany still comes on the heels of Christmas telling the story of how the Wise Men came from a long way off—following a star. At the end of their journey they stood open-mouthed and wonder-filled beside a manger. The story said “they went home by another way.” That story meant many things. First, the Herods of the world do not have the last word. It also meant that following the light they found kept them going. 

The Church through the years has sung the “We three kings of Orient are…” and been  reminded reminded that “the light has come and the darkness cannot put it out.” Those words of light have covered a lot of ups and downs in history.   I think they mean that despite it all—the darkness that is seemingly everywhere—the light really does still shine. 

Put those words down beside 2019. I know we are besieged by many things—personal problems and grief and a strange hard world. The Herods are still with us. It would be easy for any of us to think this darkness will suffocate us us all.  And yet—Epiphany comes around again. Not only reminding us of that old story of a star and strange men coming from the east. But reminding us that the terrible darkness does not have the last word.

At the beginning of World War II when England was on the edge of the terrible time that would change their world. Hitler seemed to be destroying everything. King George VI spoke to the English people. He said: “I said to the man who stood at the gate of shadows, ‘Give me a light the I may tread faithfully out into the dark unknown.’ A voice replied, ‘In order to find victory in the darkness, go in courage; and then put your hand in the hand of God. That will be better than having light and safer than knowing the way.’”

Little did the King or his people know that they would be bombed night after night for more than 50 days. Yet they endured. So let us remember Epiphany and its tiny flickering light. Just enough to keeps going. Just enough to lead the way.

A Serbian man lights his candle. 
photo by Guillaume Speurt / flickr

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com