“Rose & Cotton, Your Legacies Will Always Make A Difference!”

I made a painful mistake recently – one made apparent one morning last week. This particular misdeed was not the first of its kind. Not by a long-shot.

You see, I’ve had a lifelong pattern of procrastination. Why do today what you can put off until tomorrow. It has, unfortunately, marked me, and I’ve had to deal with the sad consequences.

What happened last week is the same type of important thing (to me) I meant to do for years, that went undone. Years ago, I so intended to pay a visit to my aging former housekeeper – our family’s maid, as they were called back in the day. I grew up in a time where numerous white families employed black females to clean, do laundry, and various other household chores. If you’ve seen the movie or read the book, The Help, you get it.

Rose was a prominent part of my childhood. She was in our home five days a week, from 8-5, and often later. Not only did she clean, she cooked our dinners, baked desserts, and, most impactful for me, spent time with me each afternoon after school.

She helped me with my Weekly Reader homework, taught me card games, played outside with me, and quietly sang or hummed Supremes songs, which I still do to this day. And all of this nannying, or, in a way, parenting, was done after a full day of housework. 

I felt such a close bond. She seemed like family. Then, one day, she just wasn’t there anymore. And at 65, I still don’t know why. I’m sure I must have asked, but I have no memory of why she moved on from her long-time stint with the Wilsons.

So I decided to find her. In my late 50s, while still living in my hometown of Lakeland, Florida, I Googled Rose’s name – Rosetta Norris. I found that she was still living in Lakeland, and was now approaching 90. I was determined to visit her, and thank her, and let her know what she meant to that little boy on Maxwell Street. I even wanted to apologize for the racism prevalent during her lifetime.

So I put, “Visit Rose” on my digital task list. It carried over day after day and year after year. And then, one day, her obituary appeared in our local newspaper.  Procrastination had struck again, and, this time, I was left deeply saddened by my omission.

I was heartbroken for not prioritizing speaking my heart to her.

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And what happened last week hit just as hard. I received a phone call, informing me that Cotton Berrier had passed away.

You see, back on August 29, 2023 (to-do entry dates are displayed), I typed on that same digital task list – “Write To Cotton.” 

Cotton, as he was known since childhood, was Harry A. Berrier, the founding PGA Golf Professional at Gatlinburg Golf Course, where he served for 44 years. If you Google him, you will see as many accolades as you could imagine for a person’s lifetime of achievements.

Not only was he an icon in our community, he was known throughout the golfing world – affirmed by his membership in the national PGA Hall of Fame. Personally, he was one of my Dad’s closest friends, having played countless rounds of golf together and sharing so much of life with each other. Even though we were living in Florida, our families became friends. Already, my respect and awe of Cotton was impactful almost beyond adequate words. 

This type of widespread love and respect for him was so apparent, as a large gallery stood in a steady rain – huddled under an array of FootJoy, Titleist, Callaway and other large golf umbrellas — to bid him farewell at his graveside service, before appropriately re-convening on the first tee of “his” golf course, to hear testimony after testimony of his impact on lives. 

And there, on my iphone tucked inside my rain-soaked sport coat, displayed on my to-do list, was that task, “Write To Cotton.” Another well-intended task that will now go undone.

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Why was I even thinking of writing a letter to him? What would I have said? Well, lots.

I would tell him that what he created and ran ranks among the most meaningful “places of comfort” for me as a child. You see, my family vacationed in Gatlinburg multiple times each year, for all of my childhood and teenage years. And Gatlinburg Golf Course was a primary hang-out place for me.

Every single time I walked in the pro shop door, Cotton would acknowledge me by name. And he wouldn’t just speak – he wanted to know how I was doing and what I’d been up to in life. He would engage 11-year-old Steve in conversation. And he would walk out to the first tee and offer encouragement after my drive.

So much of those experiences are etched in my memory. Even today, I can remember the specific smell of the men’s locker room – not a bad smell, but definitely distinctive. I can picture the exact layout of the original clubhouse – including the grill/café, where Ray cooked the best hamburgers and hand-cut French fries in the county.

I can remember the booths lined up down the grill room wall, where, after a round, I would settle in, across from my daily playing partner, Mr. Bolton. Bob Bolton was a retired gentleman who walked the course most every day, carrying his own bag. For those of you not familiar with the course’s mountainous terrain, trust me on this – you’d rather hike Mount LeConte than carry your bag for 18 holes there.

But this old guy – who actually was probably my age today – and teenaged Steve would tee off and head straight down the steep hill off the first hole’s tee box.

After the round, in that booth, every time, Mr. Bolton would say in a sing-songy voice, “I’m gonna have one more beer, and then I’m gonna get outta here…” Even my kids know that oft-quoted slogan.

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The whole place was enchanting to me, from about the age of 8, until I was driving myself there in high school. The pro shop staffed by Gary and Sam, the locker room, the grill, the practice putting green, the now-long-gone swimming pool…all of it. 

Somehow, even then I knew Cotton was the pure magic of the place — a larger-than-life figure who crafted mountain golf into an other-worldly experience. He ran an operation that was certainly the envy of so many other golf properties. 

But it was the person of Cotton Berrier I held in awe. 

I felt seen and known. I felt cared for. I felt special, having done nothing to deserve it. Yes, this kid and then teen occasionally making an appearance at his course throughout each year. I could only hope to one day possess the character traits I witnessed in him. His kindness, curiosity, cheerfulness, humor, respect, his high standards, and his consistency in living out these qualities – all with an extra dose of humility. 

That’s why I wanted to write to him.

I also admired the magnetic attraction he had with his many friends. Certainly one could see that from the crowd on the first tee last week for his eulogy. In an earlier time, there would have been more, but since he was 94, so many friends and former playing partners had gone on before him. 

Cotton was the type of man with whom you wanted to be friends. Because he was the essence of how a friendship should be. To have so many people want to be with you just says so much. It says even more that so many people considered him their best friend.

Thankfully, my Dad was in that number, so we got to spend extra time with the Berriers – at their house, at the pool, in our hotel, in restaurants, hanging out in town. I was able to experience how he related to his family, which was so consistent to all of his character.

What else would I tell Cotton?

I would let him know how admirable it was that he was so proud of his daughters. Those same girls who were my very first friends in the Gatlinburg area. Harriett as a long-time school principal, and Katherine as an equally long-time rep for FootJoy. Upon seeing him in my adult life, Cotton lit up and was quick to give me an update on these girls, of whom he so adored. A father seeing how well his children were doing in life is beautiful inspiration.

I would tell him how cool it was that, in his 90s, he was still driving out to the golf course most days, and hitting balls on the practice tee until his arthritic hands were no longer able to grip the club. For the past several years, he would take his customary seat in the members’ lounge, playing Solitaire, and greet friends who still remained.

What a blessing to be among that number and get to speak with Cotton on my weekly golf day, after we moved to Gatlinburg five years ago. He still never failed to call me by name and to ask about my two brothers, whom he also called by name. And he would remember to ask about our newly opened bookshop, curious and caring til the end.

In that letter, I would thank him for being the kind of man whom I will never forget. The kind of man that always put a smile on my face. The kind of man that warms my heart. The kind of man I hope I will always emulate.

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But for this now 65-year-old kid, his legacy isn’t a memento I can touch, like the many on display at his memorial service, rather,  it’s a life that has influenced me for more than half a century and will continue to shape my remaining years on this earth.

Although, just as with Rose, I missed my chance to tell him personally how much he meant to me, I am blessed with his lasting legacy, his life of impact – which is felt by an untold number, everywhere.

And even though he has completed his time on earth, this larger-than-life golf pro taught me one more lesson: Don’t wait…say it today.

My intentions were to simply post some of the summer blooms from our landscape. With fall making its annual appearance in East Tennessee, it seemed like a good time to share some photos of summer’s beauty, just outside our door.

But then it hit me.

There’s a back story that makes the images you would have seen even more incredible.

Unlikely, even.

So this has become a short little story about a landscape surrounding a home that remained largely, intentionally, unchanged for 40+ years. Although I’m referring to the unchanged nature of both the home AND the landscape, this particular writing will focus on the land.

It’s a story of transformation.

And that’s what we’re supposed to do, right? Change. Improve. Be our best selves. And bloom!

Certainly there are analogies to inspire our thinking (and living!), but I’ll leave those to you.

For now.

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Actually, this transformation on Cline Drive in Gatlinburg, Tennessee is pretty spectacular.

My horticultural design partner in this project is Scott King, our friend and landscape consultant. Scott owns Elite Landscapes – an appropriate name for his business!

Scott, thankfully, is a hands-on proprietor – working in the field and, literally, getting his hands into each project. I’ve seen him setting trees in the ground, digging trenches, pulling weeds, and operating an excavator.

He works shoulder-to-shoulder with his crew, and also joins them for lunch at the local diner. On occasion I’ll join them and enjoy the stories of their lives, work, and families.

Scott has the unusual and admired combination of being a visionary as well as an executor. He sees it and then makes the end result even better than imagined.

All of this to say…

Scott often says this landscaping gem – yep, our yard – while not his largest project, is the most drastic and dramatic transformation of any client in his 32 years in the industry.

That’s a pretty high compliment considering the scope of his clientele.

Not only does Scott serve homeowners, he transforms landscapes for hotels, attractions, campgrounds, and a host of other properties. And he landscapes homes at nearby Blackberry Farm. If you’ve heard of it, you know. If not, look it up.

Anyway –

This really isn’t about Scott. Or us, even. It’s about the metamorphosis of a little piece of land near the foot of Mount LeConte.

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So where did we start?

What was our canvas?

Our home was built in 1971 in the Hidden Hills subdivision, four miles from downtown Gatlinburg. Our street was unnamed at the time, and was only inhabited by Lloyd and Ava Cline, who had built a spec house next door – ours!

My Dad had owned a lot elsewhere in Gatlinburg, with plans to build at some point. However, when Mr. Cline approached my parents with the offer to buy a brand new home – already built – they jumped at the chance.

With their dream of owning a slice of life in the Tennessee mountains coming true, Mom and Dad hired an interior decorator from Knoxville to furnish the home.

Sight unseen.

Remember, folks weren’t texting many photos back in the early 1970s.

But, seriously, they arrived one day for their first vacation as Tennessee homeowners to a fully furnished residence – including the pictures hanging on the wall.

You’d have to know my parents, but for those who do, you’ll get it when I tell you that said furnishings (wall hangings and all) remained largely unchanged – and unmoved – for the next 37 years.

Until the day after Susie and I purchased the home in 2008.

However…the transformation of the home itself, and its furnishings, will be a story for another day. Maybe.

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Let’s go outside –

Mr. Cline’s home was built near the peak of a hill, with the heavily wooded land sloping down all around him. When he got the idea to build that spec house next door, he carved out the middle of the hill for the home’s location.

And maybe he intended for the eventual home on the site to epitomize the neighborhood’s name?

If so, mission accomplished! Our home was nestled safely behind a tree-filled hill, rising to the home’s roof line. The only “view” was from the corner laundry room window, where the mound sloped down to accommodate the driveway.

At the time, our street and driveway were both gravel, by the way.

Here is the first known photograph of our home, taken in 1971, showing the structure tucked behind the hill. Seclusion was definitely the name of the game!

As you can see, the hill’s slope was contained by a retaining wall made from the same stone used on the house.

A few years later, the road was paved, so my Dad followed suit with our driveway. And by the late 1970s, here’s what they had.

This photo reveals Dad’s first work/improvement out front – the addition of a little wall and a street light column on the left side of the driveway, along with the addition of some boxwoods and azaleas on the hill.

Oh, and that’s the Cline home up the hill to the right. If I’m remembering correctly, the ’70s ended with ours still the only two on the street.

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So let’s talk about “the hill,” the distinguishing feature of the lot.

Again, it was the continuation of the natural slope of the land, with the back side carved out for our home.

My parents loved it.

So they decided to keep it as-is, with the addition of even a few more trees over the years. In other words, the wilder the better for the majority of the hill.

Here is a series of photos showing a younger version of the azaleas and boxwoods, along with the hill’s native trees – and then the overgrown version that seemed to be such to my parents’ liking. Supposedly, there’s a house hiding behind the brush!

There was another component to our front “yard.” The sloping perimeter of the hill was Dad’s gardening domain. Stemming from his agricultural roots in the farmlands of North Carolina, he maintained a green thumb his entire life.

After his retirement, when he and Mom would spend five months in Gatlinburg, Dad always had something new in the ground. He’d grow patches of annuals – the bigger and bushier the better. DUH!

Oh, those azaleas and boxwoods planted in the ’70s? Yep, they kept getting bigger and bushier as well.

When Dad wasn’t at the Gatlinburg Golf Course, he was tending his hillside garden, literally just outside his door. On the edge of a tiny little “forest,” on the top of the hill.

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In addition to annuals, Dad mixed in a few edibles, namely tomatoes and cucumbers. One year he got the idea to try “upside down tomatoes,” which are the green hanging cylinders in the photos. And, as you can see, he even tried to grow corn!

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But time marches on…

So, in 2008, with our three kids living in Knoxville, Susie and I decided we wanted to own a place in Gatlinburg. The obvious spot would be our family’s vacation home, however, my parents were still there for five months out of the year, so we looked at multiple options in the area.

We ended up purchasing the family home from them (in November, 2008), with the agreement that they could still stay there as they had done for the past number of years.

However —

Dad was only able to “farm his land” for one more year, as he passed away in December, 2009.

You should know that Dad loved nothing more than a good snowfall. Mom and Dad would always go up for a week in January, in hopes of getting “snowed in.” It definitely happened, on occasion.

So it was only fitting that on the very day of Dad’s funeral in Lakeland — December 19, 2009 — Gatlinburg received several inches of beautiful snow. It was SO meant to be! One of our Gatlinburg friends, Dorothy Johnson, thoughtfully placed a poinsettia in front of the house that day, in honor of Dad’s memory.

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I always knew that after we owned the house, we wanted to do something different with the hill. We weren’t quite sure what that was, but we knew we didn’t want it quite as wild and agrarian.

For the year we owned the house while my parents were still coming to Gatlinburg, we did nothing to the exterior. I knew that was Dad’s domain and his primary hobby at that point, so it was his to continue to enjoy. And cultivate.

And even the first year after he died, we made no major changes out front. I mean, a hill is a hill and we just didn’t know what to really do with it. Other than make it less “wild.” Oh, and I wasn’t really into vegetable gardening, either, so I knew that would go away.

The biggest issue in my mind was that the hill was the natural flow of the land and it was filled with trees. I knew we just couldn’t remove it! Right?

So we did the next best thing — clean it up a little. By now the original boxwoods had grown into a monstrous thicket. The hill was also covered with undergrowth, making it hard to even walk on. Go back and take a look at the first gallery of photos, above. The last large photo reflects the state of things at that time. Yeah.

Waiting a respectful seven months following Dad’s death, we began pulling out the huge boxwoods and the undergrowth…

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This work was likely the first removal of plant material the hill had ever experienced. And, amazingly, there was now an ever-so-slight bit of a view from another window!

We knew the newfound sunlight now able to make its way to the surface of the hill would promote weed growth, so we covered it with pine needle mulch. In addition to the weed suppression, it was just a better look overall, we thought.

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By the next summer, we were ready for some landscaping! It was time to reintroduce some plants — ones that would survive without any TLC for months at a time, since this was still just our vacation home.

We also decided to add a few boulders and some Tennessee river rock.

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Ten years ago, knockout roses were quite the rage. And not that they’re out of style now, but I was very familiar with their maintenance-free flourishing, so we had them installed across the front of the hill.

The other areas were filled in with small hollies and lorapetalums, along with some native perennials, such as coneflowers and black-eyed Susans. And, as you can see, we continued with the pine needle mulch.

At the most prominent location on the front corner of the hill, we placed a Japanese Maple, just above a bed of Tennessee river rock

Our first Tennessee landscaping project was complete!

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In 2015 we made some major modifications and expansion to the original home, doubling its square footage, converting the carport into a garage, and adding a gable front.

However…

The front hill landscaping remained basically unchanged from its installation in 2011 through 2018, other than the obvious plant growth. These were some hearty varieties, too, as I was only there to tend to things off and on throughout each year.

Even though we had what we felt was a nicely landscaped hill…

We still had a hill. In front of the house. Again, with the only view of the mountains being from the laundry room window. And how do you just remove a huge chunk of land with large trees?

Keep reading and I’ll show and tell you how!!

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By 2018, we knew we’d be moving permanently to Gatlinburg by that fall. In addition to blocking any possible view, the hill was problematic in that there were moisture issues in the original portion of the house, closest to the hill. Also, just steps outside the front door was the retaining wall and the hill, which rose to the home’s roof line. We were living in a bunker.

And just on the other side of this hill blockade was a spectacular mountain view!

So…it just had to go!

The major transformation was beginning…

Step one was tree removal…except for the stumps, which would be used for eventual removal of the root masses.

This initial action took place in July, 2018, two months prior to our move on September 1.

Soon after our permanent relocation, the heavy equipment work began on removing the actual hill!

The excavator dug out the tree stumps and roots first and then filled truckload after truckload of dirt and clay, until the hill had been relocated from Cline Drive to a site several miles down the road!

The final “removal” step was to dismantle the stone retaining wall in front of the house.

As you can see from the photo, above…there actually WAS a house behind that hill!!

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But there’s something else…even though we removed the hill, the elevation difference in our new frontage and the property next door would require some type of retaining wall. So we decided to go with natural mountain boulders.

The boulders were delivered on pallets and then each boulder was strapped and lifted into place, individually. Scott would take a look and either replace it with another more to his liking, or move it an inch or two, to get it perfect in his eyes.

In essence, it was a gigantic jigsaw puzzle, being assembled in our new front yard!

The space behind each level of boulders was filled with a smaller sized stone, for support and stability. And, of course, once the boulder wall was built to its proper height, rich dirt was placed on the top, to ready those areas for landscaping.

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I’ve already mentioned that Scott was quite a visionary. After a long day of excavation of the hill, as he was leaving, we noticed he was sitting in his truck, in front of our house. And staring at it. We assumed he was returning phone calls, so we retreated to our back deck for happy hour. And to celebrate what our front yard was becoming.

Before long, there was a knock on the front door. We opened it to find Scott, ready to propose an alteration to our home (NOT to our landscape!) — and one that has now transformed the entire appearance of the front of the house. And provided us great enjoyment! His staring our house down was actually his mind envisioning a needed change!

He pointed out that the gable we had previously added above the front door would now be out of proportion with the rest of the home. In other words…too small. He also knew we would want a usable front porch, from which we could enjoy the view of the amazing mountain ranges rising above our property.

So, by the very next day, Scott met with us and our general contractor for all of our home renovations, and the two of them literally used orange spray paint in the dirt to indicate the size of the proposed new front porch and entry way.

And with that, our next home renovation was also underway!

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So while we were removing the hill, and now adding a spacious new front porch, we also decided to remove the asphalt driveway, and replace it with concrete.

At the same time, we were ready to relocate our stack of firewood from inside our garage, to create more space and to remove this natural habitat for bugs from the garage. However, we still wanted to be able to keep it dry.

Our builder said he could easily build a wood box, just outside our garage. Perfect! We left for Knoxville one day and returned to see QUITE the wood box, err…shed! Sheryl had nothing on us!!

The next series of photos shows the work on the new front porch, the driveway, and the shed…

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Next up? A sidewalk!

But not just any old sidewalk…very large slabs of Tennessee Crab Orchard Flagstone.

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And then, of course, landscaping!

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In the last image, above, you’ll notice the return of the Japanese Maple, which had been planted many years before. It was saved as a part of the hill demolition and was transplanted in a prominent location by the front porch!

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The next step of this amazing transformation was the installation of Tall Fescue sod, which came in rolls and was carefully placed — first between the flagstone and then across the remainder of what would be our new front yard.

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The finishing touch was the installation of annuals, in four beds we have reserved for color change-outs a couple of times a year…

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Okay, so there was one more item…

We needed a mailbox! But just not any mailbox…we wanted a combo mailbox and street light!

So…remember the stone that was in the original retaining wall by the hill? Yeah, that same stone that was used on the house back in 1971? Well, when the wall was removed, we kept the stone and then ended up using it to form the base of the columns on the new front porch, and for the mailbox/light column…

So…by Memorial Day of 2019, this transformational project which began in the fall of 2018 was complete!

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What once was this…

Has been transformed into this…

Yes, we now have a yard, a boulder wall, new trees, and an array of landscaping, including woody ornamentals, perennials, annuals, and succulents growing in the crevasses of the boulders. Our goal was to concentrate on native plants, and try not to duplicate plants we had in our Florida landscape.

Just last week, I took an inventory of our landscape and counted 58 different plant varieties! Now, that does include the front yard as well as the extensive work we have done in the back, which I may write about in the future.

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Finally, I’ll leave you with a gallery of blooms, etc. we have enjoyed since the transformation, along with a few winter scenes, for good measure…

While out on my daily walk on the morning of August 1, I noticed a number of colored leaves along the ground. Bright yellows, reds and oranges. Although they were clearly confused, I was reminded that fall is on its way.

The leaves aren’t the only foretellers of the season just ahead here in east Tennessee.

All the nearby fields are dotted with hale bales, in preparation for the winter to come…

The early morning and evening temperatures are now oh so comfortable…

Stalks are growing thick and tall at the local farm that opens its incredible corn maze in October…

Just this week my football tickets arrived for the upcoming season in Neyland Stadium…

Popular retailers are filling my social media feeds with pumpkin everything…

Yes, in August!

Ahh the splendors of that coveted season –

S’mores by the firepit…Cozy blankets nearby (as if they’re not there year-round)…Fleece pullovers…Wool socks…Apple Cider donuts, Apple Cider candles, Apple Cider mules, pretty much apple cider anything…Crisp air…Fireplace ambiance…Day-long gentle rain…Mountains ablaze with all the colors of fall.

It all sounds amazing, doesn’t it?

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But something else is prevalent this particular late summer, heading into the autumn season.

Something unexpected. Something that is, mentally, taking my breath away — and, for some, literally.

Something that is truly beyond my realm of understanding.

Covid.

Yeah, that.

That sobering dose of reality that doesn’t have to be.

Sorry for the buzzkill, folks.

We’ve been mugged by reality.

I would say, “don’t get me started,” but it’s too late for that.

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Just two months ago, Susie and I finally felt free to travel again. Not only were we fully vaccinated, we felt confident in shedding our masks. Since we still weren’t anxious to jump on a plane, we traveled by car to explore parts of the country that would be new to us, namely upstate New York and Pennsylvania.

What a great feeling to get out and about! We hit two national parks, an Inn in the Adirondacks, Niagara Falls, and caught a Pirates game at PNC Park in Pittsburgh.

Although we had masks in tow, I can’t remember using them. I mean, little by little the world was becoming vaccinated and Covid was being eradicated, shot by shot. This insidious virus, that has claimed the lives of so many, including those we know and love, was going away.

Right?

I mean, mass vaccinations create herd immunity (DUH!), thus ridding our world of plagues throughout history. Right?

And, because of this fact, everyone eligible would surely be in line to become vaccinated and do their part in the eradication. Right?

In so doing, many lives would be spared. Right?

There would be a worldwide wave of relief as we return to normal, because we all know just what to do to make that happen. Right?

The human race can ultimately be counted on to step up and do the noble thing. Right?

We happened to be in Lake Placid the night the state of New York celebrated the 70% vaccination milestone with a stunning fireworks show over the lake.

It was such a high moment signifying that, not only was the worst of Covid behind us, but, collectively, we could continue to expect better and better days ahead.

A return to what we remembered as normal.

Yes, and many lives would be saved.

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Well, apparently, we hit the safe vacation slot just right, because not long after our return home, it became clearly apparent Covid wasn’t ready to go away.

Or – more accurately – a large number of the population wasn’t ready to do their part….the role that’s so essential with a contagious pandemic.

I mean, if you were a virus, how happy would you be with so many welcoming hosts walking around, unprotected? It’s no wonder the mutations are leading to even more contagious and dangerous variants. It’s not complicated, really.

But I’ll say it again – It didn’t have to be.

And I just don’t get it.

Here we are again, facing mask debates, overcrowded hospitals, lack of ICU beds, changes of protocols, cancelled plans, and death.

It’s a large-scale public health emergency.

And for those of us still around? Warped lives.

All. So. Unnecessary.

So I turned to my trusted friend, Google, to discover “why people aren’t getting vaccinated.” I needed help with this head-scratcher.

While there is still lack of access in some areas – yet those locales are becoming fewer and fewer – for the hesitant, it comes down to…

Little trust in the vaccines or the institutions behind them.

Or concern about vaccine side effects.

Or belief in at least one of several conspiracy theories.

Or, amazingly, a continued refusal to see Covid as a threat.

And, of course, many are still doing “their own” research. I’m truly not certain which medical and scientific professionals they’re consulting. Given the current healthcare crisis, I bet any rogue doctors who were once skeptics have even changed their tunes by now…if nothing else, simply by glancing in the directions of their ERs and ICUs.

I’m also most certain many of the anti-vaxers have found support within their Facebook panel of experts. That’s always such a wise and informed source.

For the sake of consistency, why do these distrusting people consult doctors and rely on pharmaceuticals for their broken bones, for their heart disease, and for their cancer? The medical/scientific profession is worthy in these disciplines, but not when it comes to eradicating a deadly contagion?

I just don’t get it.

Sometimes I’m even tempted to think the vaccine hesitancy and the anti-masking beliefs are politically motivated. But…nahh…that would never happen. Right?

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Whatever the excuse, all of the anti-vaxers’ reasons can be boiled down to the virus behind the virus.

That virus has a name, too.  And I’ll skip right over any latin or scientific derivations and just say it –

Selfishness.

Oh, and there are plenty of street names and phrases that could also be used for those who are perpetuating the virus. But I try to keep this blog family-friendly.

Unfortunately there’s no vaccine for people who truly just don’t give a damn…for these people who are such willing accomplices to suffering and death.

Interestingly, many of these same people act like they desire a return to normal, like they care about the economy, like they’re actually concerned for people, like they’re a voice for freedom and liberty.

So, what about their “personal choice” of not getting the vaccine?

Guess what, folks? When your choices have the likelihood of harming and even killing others, it’s no longer personal.

It’s actually a toxic individualism.

Shunning vaccination is preventing a return to normal. It’s potentially hurting the economy and threatening businesses that are still trying to recover from shutdowns. And it’s giving us all less and less freedom to do the things we want so badly to do. Unmasked.

The worst of it? The subsequent variants, spreading mostly throughout the unvaccinated, are raging – leaving sickness and long-term effects in their wake. And more death.

This virus of selfishness is just awful.

People that are under-age or for whatever legit medical reason just can’t get vaccinated are so vulnerable right now.

And what about the exhausted healthcare professionals…working tirelessly caring for the current onslaught of seriously ill and dying Covid patients? Most of whom are…unvaccinated.

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So, kudos to the increasing number of companies and the colleges who are requiring vaccinations for employees and students. Hats off to cities that require vaccinations for indoor dining and gyms. Way to go Canada for requiring vaccinations for incoming travelers.

If more followed suit, and the unvaccinated become more and more homebound by their own “personal choice,” I don’t know…perhaps this is an alternative means of suffocating Covid.

For now, though, I join with Gordon Lightfoot and the lyrics of, “If you Could Read My Mind” –

Let’s be real;

I never thought I could feel this way

And I’ve got to say that I just don’t get it.

I don’t know where we went wrong,

But the feeling’s gone

And I just can’t get it back.

Yeah, the feeling’s gone. That feeling of not living with a constant layer of anxiety clouding our lives.

We were oh so close. Light was shining at the end of the 15-month-long tunnel. Hope was around the next curve.

But now…here we are again.

I really don’t think I’ll ever get it.

So, I’ve been thinking about…

Legit Apologies.

And just how uncommon they are.

That’s right, a simple, heartfelt, genuine, blame-accepting apology seems about as rare as rocking horse manure.

Will you think about this with me for a moment? (As soon as you get over that previous comparison.)

 Let’s review the actual words we use in offering our sorrow, which too often turns into more of an explanation. If not a defense.

Even if we are truly regretful, our language often neutralizes or even negates any sorrow we may actually be feeling.

Remember –

Words are important.

Choose them wisely, and with intention. A little thought always helps, too.

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Let’s start with the non-apologetic apologies. So what do we hear all the time?

“I am sorry if…”

This may be the least apologetic of offered apologies, and is actually no apology at all. I’m sorry if I offended you. I’m sorry if I upset you. I’m sorry if you were offended.

If, if if.

If I maybe, kinda, could’ve done this or that. Chances are I didn’t. But IF I did…

The if shouts loudly that maybe I did and maybe I didn’t, but I just can’t say for sure. And I’m certainly not going to accept responsibility. And, worst of all, the problem is truly you, offended person, feeling the way you do about it.

“I am sorry, but…”

A plethora of verbiage follows this fake apology. Excuses for our words or behavior.

I’m sorry, but I have this terrible headache. I’m sorry, but I’m still worried about…I’m sorry, but I was in such a hurry and was stressed. I’m sorry, but everyone else knew I was just kidding.

In other words, there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for why I said or did that thing. And you need to cut me some slack.

“I am sorry that you…”

Ever heard of blame-shifting? This sorry excuse for an apology places the responsibility squarely in the lap of the other person.

I can still remember a college roommate’s phone conversation with his mother as they were having a disagreement regarding some of his spending choices. After his mom expressed her clear opinion, he offered, “I’m sorry that you see it that way, mother.”

I’m sorry that you felt hurt. I’m sorry that you’re angry. I’m sorry that you think I’m a big jerk. I’m sorry that you feel that I…

There’s not a shred of apology in these words; rather, maybe just a hope that the other person will be able to get over it.

Probably the worst part about these non-apologies are speaking those first few words, “I’m sorry.”

Oh, really?? “Could have fooled me,” rightfully thinks the other person, the offended party.

I guess we just feel better saying that up front, before we continue with our line of defense.

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So, what other mindless non-apologies do we give from time to time, under the guise of an apology?

“Oh my gosh, I am SO sorry! I didn’t mean to…”

Ah…we didn’t intend to hurt their feelings, or whatever. But guess what? We did! This one gets us around to intention versus impact. If I had a nickel for the number of times I’ve said, “I didn’t intend to,” or “My intentions were to…”

When someone has been wronged, I don’t really think they care about our intentions. And it took me far too long to realize that. It’s all about the impact it had on them.

Always consider impact before intentions!

“I guess I owe you an apology.”

Oh, ya think!?! Then let me hear it, then!

“You know I’m sorry.” “You know I didn’t really mean that.”  You know I would never want to hurt you.”

These words minimize any blame, or even imply that the other person really shouldn’t be all that upset. Or that they should know your true intentions. And, to be honest, I can’t detect any true apology here, either.

“I was just kidding!!”

Oh, okay, but at the other person’s expense. On their emotional dime.

Or, “I was just trying to help.” Here I was being a do-gooder and now you’re all upset. How could I possibly be to blame for that!?!

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So, just what are the magic words that communicate sorrow, regret, or remorse…a true acknowledgement that you are wrong?

“I am sorry THAT I…”

No ifs. No buts. No other qualifying words. No excuses.

Those two little amazing words, “that I” are the key that unlocks true regret! And communicates actual blame and sorrow.

I’m sorry that I hurt you. I’m sorry that I said this and that it was hurtful to you. I’m sorry that I didn’t do what I said I would do. I’m sorry that I have been a big jerk.

Period.

Give up that urge to start making excuses, or being defensive.

Now, if you want to add words, consider these –

“I was wrong and I hope you’ll forgive me.”

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So why write about apologies today? Is there something I need to confess? Some misdeed for which I need to seek forgiveness?

Actually…yes!

I have not been a good apologizer. Sucky, really.

I’m defensive, and an expert in all kinds of reasons I did or said what I did. And they all make perfectly good sense to me!

And because I’m on a quest to not “settle” in life, and not just be the way I’ve always been in so many ways, I’m committed to change.

To think deeper.

Mostly, to live more intentionally.

And other people are worth and certainly deserve that kind of effort!

I’m really, really sorry that I have been so bad at something that’s so important.

Part of my thinking is that, if I write about it, I’ll be way more apt to keep these things in mind, for the many times I’ll need to apologize in the future.

And here you thought the entire time I was talking to, or about, you! That you were the ones offering less than true apologies. And it was…me…the whole time!

But let’s be honest. If you did happen to find yourself in any of these examples, will you join me in committing to being better at seeking forgiveness?

It’s SO easy to follow the “I’m sorry” with the ifs, buts, and all kind of excuses – ones designed to protect us, while leaving the other person in limbo.

Maybe we don’t feel we did anything wrong. Perhaps we’re embarrassed. Or, we could actually feel shame about what we said or did, but are unwilling to confront our shame.

Whatever the case…please…forget the famous line from 1970’s Love Story – “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.”

Quite the opposite, right?

I was texting with a friend in Florida today, who said he could tell from our social media posts that it appears we’re enjoying our life in Tennessee.

As I confirmed his observations, I replied with what I seem to always say first about where we now live –

“We especially love the seasons.”

Remember, this reflection comes after 60 years of living in Central Florida, where summer fades into late summer, and spring happens for a few weeks in March (my favorite month there!) before summer returns again. And fall actually happens in late February with oak leaves everywhere, followed by the annual blanket of allergy-inducing pollen.

Can you feel my deep affection?

Okay, of the attractive things about my homeland, the lack of obvious seasonal change is not among them. Or the heat. I was actually allergic to it. Mentally allergic. I felt climatically out of sorts.

Anyway…back to Tennessee. I truly love every season. If I’m asked to name a favorite, the answer would come quickly – all of them!

It’s so enriching (and refreshing!) to embrace all that each season offers. From climate differences to the dramatic transformation of the landscape, the four seasons provide variations I just feel we were meant to experience.

As we now move into March, signs of spring are all around us. Daffodils, the first bloomers, are poking through the ground and peeking out all over. I’ve noticed tender green shoots at the base of our many hydrangeas. And, of course, weeds are, unfortunately, becoming obvious everywhere you don’t want them, their bright green foliage contrasting against the dormant turf.

And, despite the sure signs of spring, a wintry mix is predicted again soon. Yep, the typical March variety show!

Now, before we rush right into springtime glories, I feel led to pay tribute to Old Man Winter. You know, that season that so frequently gets a bad rap…

…as cold, dark, and often depressing. I mean, look at the familiar moniker I even just used!

And we hear it all the time in these parts…

“I just can’t wait til spring!”

Or, the wishful, “spring is right around the corner!”

The annual spring fever often sets in even by the end of January.

So, before your agreeing mind takes off down the rabbit hole of dissing this seemingly unfriendliest of seasons, I’m going to reserve time to stand up for winter.

By pointing out a few of my favorite things.

“Winter is not a season, it’s a celebration.”

Anamika Misra

Stay tuned to hear all about spring, summer, and fall. Yep, they’ll have their time to bloom, shine, and dazzle. But for now, let’s give a little love to this season that’s in its final days.

By the way, don’t expect any deep philosophical wintertime metaphors.  I won’t be comparing winter to our lives or emotional states. You won’t have to read between the lines. Or think too deeply.

Oh, and I won’t be talking about the health perks or the science behind winter. So, nothing about why it’s good for the trees to lose their leaves, etc. Or medicinal for us to relax under a blanket and sip tea.

Just for kicks, though, I Googled “benefits of winter,” and found articles such as…

“Surprising Health Benefits of Cold Weather,”

“Why Cold Weather is Actually Good for You,”

“The Wonders of Winter Workouts,”

“The Benefits of Winter Weather on Mental Health.”

Hmmm…although I won’t be addressing anything scientifically and medically proven, that last title definitely resonates with me.

But, again, all the seasons impact my state of mind, in their time!

So…just what is it about winter?

Well, actually, it’s been a long-time love affair. Some of my favorite childhood memories had to do with our coldest winter days in Central Florida, which were few and far between, by the way.

I loved waking up and seeing the haze on the horizon, knowing the smudge pots were fired up in the nearby groves. Smudge pots, you ask? They were heaters that would burn liquid fuel, such as kerosene or diesel, and were essential in those days to keep fruit from freezing.

At that time, I was oblivious to the tense all-nighters pulled by grove owners and workers trying to save the year’s crop…oh, and to the massive amounts of air pollution inherit in their design. Who would have thought the oily black smoke blanketing the sky was a problem?

I can remember waking up and hearing the sound of distant train horns on the coldest of mornings. Ones I wouldn’t hear on most other days. I won’t go into the science of why sound travels farther in cold weather because I don’t even understand it, but, trust me, it’s a thing.  

I can also recall – on those nights when a freeze was predicted — leaving out a pie pan with a thin layer of water, in hopes of finding a sheet of ice the next morning.

I’ll never forget when my Dad sacrificed our home’s landscaping one night by intentionally leaving the sprinklers on to “ice over” our front yard.

And – wouldn’t you know – the only measurable snow in Lakeland in the last 200 years was in January, 1977, when a whopping two inches was recorded. My whereabouts? Ironically, that happened to be my Freshman year of college, when I was already enjoying plenty of the white stuff in Knoxville.

Well, that was then. So…what about now? What makes me smile today when I think of winter?

I love breaking out the flannel shirts and wool socks. Always have, though. And my morning time go-to is my floppy VOLS sweatshirt, which I typically wear through two cups of coffee and until that first Zoom call.

During winter, all of life seems more peaceful and, especially, quiet. And there is absolutely no stillness like the morning after an overnight snowfall. Part of that has to do with the lack of people venturing out and about. Typically, only a few brave (and hungry) birds are quickly searching for their next meal.

“To appreciate the beauty of a snowflake it is necessary to stand out in the cold.”

Aristotle

So, let’s talk about this crown jewel of winter –

Snow!

In our first couple of winters here, the best snowfalls seemed to come overnight. We’d open the blinds in the morning and feel like we’d traveled through the wardrobe to Narnia. However, this winter the heaviest of snows happened during the day, when we could actually see the covering develop and deepen.

The minute the first flurries begin, the giddiness kicks in. I love to watch it fall and I love standing out in it, more. All the rest of life takes a back seat when the flakes are falling. It’s a true love affair.

And that white blanket! With snow cover, the bleak, dormant landscape is instantly transformed into a scene right out of Currier and Ives.

I’m not sure which I like better – the restless anticipation of a predicted snowfall, or the ones that happen unexpectedly, causing me to question the “thinking” of my Weather App. Like, “wait a minute…where’d THAT come from??” And this winter, we had several of both!

I hope I never lose my excitement over snow!

I hope I truly never get used to it.

I hope it never gets old.

But, there’s more to this season than snow –

Whether it’s from snowfall or just the typical wintertime abundance of rain, our ground gets its heavy dose of moisture over these months, which is so needed in preparation for the dryer months ahead. And I actually love rainy winter days…in moderation, of course.

“The color of springtime is in the flowers; the color of winter is in the imagination.”

Terri Guillemets

So, there’s something else about winter I didn’t use to like, but have come to look forward to. With so much moisture in the ground, our local golf course restricts carts to “paved path only” from late fall until sometime in April. To protect their turf!

And, of course, you can often count on hitting balls to the opposite side of the fairway from the cart path. In other words, LOTS of walking up and down those hills. Surprisingly, I’ve found a new affection for these winter rules, especially with my Apple Watch tracking every step. What a great way to close the day’s fitness rings!

Now, about that mountain wind!

I love when a front is blowing through with the loud roar rushing off the mountains and through the nearby forests. And this is coming from someone whose Florida home was split in half by a hurricane-felled tree! You’d think just the sound of it would trigger PTSD.

So, yes, I know the risks. And, yeah, I should be more concerned. But, still, I love a windy day or night! An affection not shared by Susie, by the way.

Speaking of trees…

I love how winter reveals the structure of trees. I know that sounds odd in that trees usually get their praise for spring blooms, summer shade, or fall color. But, just this winter, I have paid much more attention to the bare branches and limbs and have found real beauty in their shape. Weird, I know.

And speaking of bare trees…

I love how wintertime uncovers so much that is unseen throughout most of the year. On our mostly daily walks, we discover homes and cabins in the winter we never knew existed! And while hiking, it’s the chance to really see what’s on either side of the normally secluded trails.

Although I miss the bears that frequent our neighborhood, it is nice to walk outside for a few months without having to keep our heads on a swivel. Yes…being on the lookout for bears is a thing! Most any time of day. Although they have no interest in attacking us, I’d still prefer to see them from a safe distance, and not come around a corner and surprise each other. Been there, done that!

“Winter, a lingering season, is a time to gather golden moments, embark upon a sentimental journey, and enjoy every idle hour.”

John Boswell

I love our bundled-up, brisk late afternoon walks, and then the rush back into the house to get a fire started. And, oh the number of fires this winter!!

Which reminds me to tell you about our woodshed. Several years ago, we thought we were having a little wood BOX built, adjacent to our garage. We wanted the wood close, but protected from the elements.

You see, even though we have a gas fire pit and a gas fireplace in another part of the house, we still have a wood-burning fireplace in our family room.

By the way, that’s another winter love – the sight, sound, warmth, and smell of a wood-burning fire. Well, actually, the best fires will have no inside smoke smell, to be honest. If this was a commercial post, I would be sure to tell you about the amazing smokeless grate, from Orvis…but that’s not my purpose here. But, you do need one!

Back to the woodshed – by the time it was completed, our expected little wood box had grown into a full-blown room. Remember Cheryl’s She-Shed from the commercial? Yep.

Not only does it hold LOTS of wood, it’s also a convenient storage place for all the lawn equipment! It could also likely accommodate a family of four.

Anyway, after the fire is crackling, we’re typically enjoying another winter delight – comfort foods reserved mostly for this time of year. Susie has an array of homemade soups, chili, and other hot dishes that are perfect for a host of 20-something-degree nights.

By the time we’re eating, darkness has long descended upon us. As much as I love our extended evening light in the summer – typically until almost 9:30 – I’m equally okay with nightfall arriving before 6:00 in the winter. It’s just the way it’s supposed to be, and I have embraced it!

But don’t get me wrong, I’m loving the days now getting longer. For everything there is a season…

So for now…

Thank you, Winter.

For the peace and solitude, for the anticipation and excitement, for the beauty and wonder.

If you’re reading this as a Floridian or from somewhere else in the sunbelt, you now have a glimpse of my “wintering,” and why I find it so wonderful.

And if you live in a cold climate, you probably get this. Yet, I know there are so many who don’t find you — winter — as kind and comforting, as your fury can be harsh at times.

“Seasons may change winter to spring, but I love you til the end of time, come what may…”

Unknown

But, here in East Tennessee

within the Smokies

throughout our neighborhood

around our home…

you’re close to perfect.

See you again in December.

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It’s the pattern of life. For healthy people, that is.

Living in our life’s comfort zone…

Then facing a disruption to our normal way of thinking or being (most often one we didn’t seek)…

Which will lead to reassessing, and then moving into renewal.

And it can happen over and over and, then, over again.

Order…Disorder…Reorder.

An important model of human and spiritual development. We see it throughout the Bible, and certainly in our own lives.

It’s the way of healthy development. Of real growth.

A frequent opportunity in my consulting practice is to train and coach fundraisers in the best practices of Advancement. One of my current clients is someone new to the field, so we’re starting with the basics, including the very meaning of the word, “advancement.” Which is, by the way, the action of moving forward in progress.

Moving forward. Not static. Not status quo. Not just maintaining.

Progressing, not Regressing.

Our gears – minds and hearts – engaged.

New discoveries. Ones that are transformative.

It’s what we should all be doing. Yes, indeed, our present has meaning, and value. It holds an important place. By the same token, our disorder is valuable. But the pattern of transformation involves at least some measure of suffering.

And then comes the beauty,

the relief,

the enlightenment…of reorder.

I hope to return to this important topic in future writings, to discuss my own experiences of Order/Disorder/Reorder.

For now, though, I hope you’ll continue reading in order to understand the story of my youngest son. It’s his spiritual journey.

Why read? Because I know it’s not just his story. The resonance is, likely, widespread.

Based on the response he received from so many like-minded people after posting this writing several years ago – even twenty-somethings he barely knew – I know without a doubt many of you have family members on this path. It might even be you!

It’s a good and healthy path.

I am grateful for his honesty. I’m thankful he took the time to think through his own journey and write it so articulately. Although I’m certainly grateful for those things he describes as “order,” – heck, we made most of those things possible! – I’m equally thankful for the period of disorder and his current reordering.

As you read, I believe you’ll find a part of yourself and others you love in this evolving story…

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The Three Stages of Life: Order, Disorder, and Reorder.

By Jeremy Wilson May, 2017

ORDER

Order was being the youngest child born into a Christian family. Order was having my nursery decorated in a Noah’s Ark theme before I could even crawl. Order was spending Sundays in children’s church before I could even walk. Order was church on Sunday morning and every Sunday night. Order was learning Bible stories before knowing how to read or write. Order was eating goldfish after singing Jesus Loves Me. Order was drawing Zacchaeus up in the tree, a wee little man was he. Order was felt-board Jesus.

Order was boring hymns that sounded 1,000-years-old – maybe they were. Order was the booming voices of older men in baggy suits singing Rock of Ages, and the woman in the pew behind me holding the note a half-second too long. Order was the organ-player putting her heart and soul into every note. Order was a church-wide dinner in the gymnasium on Wednesdays before the midweek service.

Order was memorizing the Westminster Shorter Catechism for Kids, reciting them to my Sunday school teachers: “Q. 14. Where do you learn how to love and obey God? In the Bible alone. Q. 15. Who wrote The Bible? Holy men who were taught by the Holy Spirit.” Order was being freaked out about questions 10 and 11: “Q. 10. Where is God? God is everywhere. Q. 11. Can you see God? No. I cannot see God, but he always sees me.” Order was keeping it to myself like everyone else.

Order was attending a Christian school from Kindergarten through 12^th grade. Order was learning colors, and words, and numbers. Order was learning how to write my name with an oversized red pencil. Order was seeing the same faces in class that were in Sunday school. Order was trying to make friends laugh during naptime, and getting in trouble for doing so. Order was just trying to make it to recess.

Order was a weekly Bible verse memorization for 13-straight years at school. Order was weekly sword drills, seeing who could find the chapter and verse the quickest. Order was winning the 4^th grade sword drill competition, with the grand prize being – yes, you guessed it – a new and sharper “sword”. Order was more concerned with the “what” and “where” in scripture, not the “why”. Order was learning about the Bible the same way as learning our country’s 50 States and Capitals.

Order was being taught a literal six-day creation story with no room for an alternative theory. Order was every teacher giving a disclaimer when science videos hinted at the Earth being 13 billion years old – “Oh, before I press play, the stuff at the beginning about evolution and all is obviously not true, but the rest of the video is pretty good.” Order was hearing the same stories at church and school, giving no reason to question it because it was often coming from the same people.

Order was authority figures always having all the answers, regardless of the topic. Order was Bible teachers answering existential questions with the same certainty as questions about the Periodic Table. Order was having P.E. coaches tasked with teaching Bible classes. Order lacked mystery and the unknown. Order was building walls around me without my knowledge.

Order was then attending a large public university, but quickly finding a group that fit inside those walls. Order was having the same beliefs preached every week, but in a different state by different faces so that it felt like newer ideas. Order was meeting new people outside of the walls, but always returning and locking the door behind me.

Order was moving to Chicago and meeting people from all different backgrounds, which didn’t poke holes in the mortar of the walls, but rather revealed the actual existence of the walls. Order knew to find a church immediately to ensure that friends would be on the same page, but even then Order started to look dated. Order was a small group that had open and honest discussions, but often the group’s honesty wasn’t to Order’s liking.

Order was moving to Nashville where it felt safe and sound. Order was reconnecting with old friends and making new friends that fit comfortably back inside of the walls, which put Order at peace. Order was going to a new church where the music was better and the people dressed well, masking that message hadn’t changed since the felt board. Order was still hearing preachers talk about who was in and who was out, how single people “needed to be rescued”, and how all were welcome, but with an asterisk next to “all” so large it could be seen from outer space. Order’s walls began to get exposed by personal experience, and the views from inside were bleak. Order became old and stale.

Order, however, was important and necessary. Order was learning right from wrong. Order was learning safe from unsafe. Order was great friends, mission trips, camps, lock-ins, white-water rafting and ski trips. Order was sports, movies, television, (heavily-guided) reading, singing, bad dancing, dating, and parties. Order was performed and taught by lovely people with good intentions. Order needed authority figures to have authority, just not the absolute kind.

Order was missing one key ingredient: curiosity. Order would encourage curiosity, but only if it fit within Order’s walls, because Order didn’t like to be challenged. Order had curiosity and mystery on a retractable leash, letting them have the feeling of running wild until they reached the threshold, then they were violently whipped back, returning to their origin.

Order was necessary because Order is always the beginning. Order is not to be tossed out, but for growth to occur, the walls of Order must come tumbling down.

DISORDER

Disorder doesn’t start with an explosion. Disorder begins like the first few sprinkles of an approaching storm, causing the glassy lake to lose its smooth reflection. Disorder is ripples, not waves.

Disorder, however, won’t start or go anywhere without the companion that Order kept on the leash: curiosity. Disorder has its learner’s permit, but it is not allowed to drive anywhere without curiosity in the front seat. Disorder will knock on the door relentlessly, but curiosity has to unlock the door from the other side. Disorder, for some, knocks on the door for years, exhausting the tenant who won’t let curiosity near the deadbolt. Disorder is the vehicle, but curiosity is the fuel.

Disorder began with an innocent book about a guide to creating a life worth living. Disorder knew I wouldn’t realize that it was spiritual at first, but later I would realize that everything is spiritual. Disorder knew that Order had installed a more passive approach to living: our time on Earth was a waiting room for the glory that’s to come, so speak the party line until you advance to the next level. Disorder needed to show me that the glory was here and now, and that God was looking for co-creators saying, “Psst – this is a gift, and you’ve had it the whole time.”

Disorder needed to start with adjusting my mindset before hitting the road. Disorder didn’t try to change my lens, but rather reveal the existence of the lens. Disorder turned on the lights, exposing just how high the walls towered overhead.

Disorder then tapped on my shoulder when my Uncle, a pastor of a large church in San Francisco, opened the doors of his 20-year-old church to the LGBTQ+ community, fully affirming and inclusive. Order had taught me for years about who was in and who was out, but with no research other than an authority figure saying, “Well, the Bible says…” Order loved to keeps things black and white, stifling any resemblance of a counter-argument on such topics.

Disorder began by asking me not what I believe, but to consider why I hold certain beliefs. Disorder wasn’t trying to change my mind right off the bat; it just wanted me to be open to the idea of a change of mind. Disorder was setting the stage; ripples, not waves.

Disorder doesn’t force your hand, but it won’t do the dirty work for you.

Disorder was a book about reexamining scripture’s view and the history of the church’s relationship on the LGBTQ+ community, cracking the mortar of Order’s walls as I flew through each chapter. Disorder was then another book on the same topic, then another, and then podcasts full of stories from this community that had been treated as less than human by the church forever. Order had taught me a narrow, dualistic view that turned away so many, and doing so “in the name of God.” Disorder showed me that we are all beloved children of God, with no exceptions, and we have been the whole time – no matter what.

Disorder was always asking the question, “If so, then what’s next?” If Disorder stops asking that question then it’s no longer in the room, and you need to go open the door and let it back inside.

Disorder was then Rob Bell’s podcast with Richard Rohr about the Alternative Orthodoxy, causing me to write page after page of notes on the skinny balcony of my old apartment. Disorder was tearing through the rest of his podcasts, some causing me to accidentally sit through red lights while in deep thought, others leaving me teary eyed thinking about how I had spent the last 25 years treating this sacred life like a pit stop. Disorder was giving me a whole new approach on how things progress, on how the whole thing moves forward. Disorder cracked the foundation of the walls.

Disorder then introduced me to a whole new world of thought leaders, some religious, some not: Liz Gilbert’s Big Magic (both the book and podcast), Richard Rohr’s books and daily meditations, Suzanne Stabile and Ian Cron on the Enneagram, The Liturgists, Science Mike, Rachel Held Evans, Glennon Doyle Melton, Peter Rollins, Peter Enns, Brene Brown, Mary Oliver, Martha Beck, Mark Nepo – a list of names that would be a spooky hell dream of my conservative past. Disorder also gave me teachings from other religions, challenging me to connect the dots of what I had previously thought of as off limits.

Disorder gave me so many podcasts and books that challenged me to rethink every single thing I had been taught growing up. Disorder had me back on that skinny balcony reading Love Wins, crying as I turned each page thinking about how certain I had been that people in the “out” crowd were destined for an eternal, boiling fire by a monster, judgmental God – and all of the times that I prayed that this God wouldn’t send me there too; what kind of loving God would do that? Disorder was turning the ripples into waves.

Disorder wasn’t going to airlift me to safety from inside Order’s walls as they crashed around me. Disorder left me in there and made me watch every last brick come crumbling down from the inside. Disorder wasn’t interested in the easy way out.

Disorder was sleepless nights, leaving me replaying all the ways that my previous beliefs hurt people when I thought I was helping. Disorder was an interior journey, demanding me to mine the soul to its core.

Disorder was brewing inside of me every second of every day, but it hadn’t bled into my surroundings yet. Disorder still had me at the same church, but leaving every Sunday upset and bitter at what felt a room full of people missing the point. Disorder made every church service and Bible study feel like I was showing up for a game in the wrong color jersey. Disorder then turned to cynicism, telling me that I’m the only one in this town – or even this part of the country – that thinks this way.

Disorder had me church hopping for a month or two, but it was only a distraction from the truth – I didn’t really want to find one. Disorder turned into taking a break from church, because why go somewhere for an hour and a half knowing that it’s just going to piss me off when I could stay home and watch the previous night’s SNL?

Disorder turned me bitter towards any people or organization who didn’t see things the way I did now: friends, family – aunts, uncles, cousins; previous schools, classmates, teachers, churches, pastors. Disorder ping-ponged back and forth from anger at how limited the belief system I was taught growing up to despair, making me wonder if any of it really mattered anyway.

Disorder had taken everything I had been told to be true and buried it in the rubble.

Disorder wouldn’t call the cleanup crew right away; it let it sit for a while as I laid watching the dust settle on the destruction. Disorder knew that I needed a break.

Disorder leaves you bloody and broken, because it knows the desire and hunger for growth is at its highest when you are at your lowest. Disorder knows you are most open to new life when you are at complete death.

Disorder then placed me in the front seat, tossed the car keys to curiosity, and hopped in the backseat. Disorder knows its time isn’t over – in fact, it’s never over – but it knows to lay low for a bit.

Disorder was and is to come.

REORDER

Reorder is harder to write and put into words because Reorder is still very new. Reorder is less of a reflection like Order and Disorder, but more like a stream of consciousness because Reorder is unfolding right now.

Reorder isn’t on my DVR. Reorder is live on the air.

Reorder found me in the rubble, but it only came after me because it saw that I was still holding onto curiosity. Reorder knew that as long as I had curiosity then I would be willing to answer the question, “What’s next?”

Reorder is being made new, not hitting the restart button. Reorder is a new birth, not reaching for the defibrillators.

Order is Palm Sunday. Disorder is Good Friday. Reorder is Easter Sunday. Reorder isn’t naïve though, it knows there are more Disorders to come, and in fact it welcomes them. Reorder doesn’t fear future Disorders because Reorder has experience as an ally; it knows how the cycle works. Reorder doesn’t exist without Disorder.

Disorder and Reorder are like the oars of a canoe. Disorder is when the oars come up out of the water, readjusting the paddle to a new angle. Reorder is when they reenter the water and propel you forward; you can’t go anywhere without both working in perfect harmony.

Reorder is the one step forward to Disorder’s two steps back.

Reorder knows whom it’s dealing with; it has watched me since birth, so it’s never surprised by the handlings of Disorder. Reorder is the feeling of being fully known, and there’s such magnificent comfort in that. Reorder is out of the proving my worth business, it’s not keeping score.

Reorder is the feeling of Divine connection; maybe Reorder is the Divine, or the closest we can get; maybe Reorder is the difference between being a Christian and being Christian – I don’t know. Reorder is acting my way into a new way of thinking instead of thinking my way into a new way of acting.

Reorder recognizes that the process of Order-Disorder-Reorder is all around us; it’s found in the seasons of the year in the same way as the seasons of life. Disorder was winter; Reorder is spring, aware that it won’t last forever, but knowing it will return. Reorder starts to see the Divine in everything. Reorder has me more interested in art, writing, comedy – any creative pursuit that helps with the ongoing creation of the world, which is when I feel most connected with the Divine.

Reorder is keeping an open mind about everything, always looking through a progressive lens. Reorder has taken this lens to the Bible, sparking a fascination about the Jesus story and what it means to be human than ever before. Reorder is realizing that the writers of the text were incredibly progressive at the time, and the best way we can honor the word is to keep pushing forward instead of trying to revert back to a literal interpretation. Reorder is making it hard for me to even talk to people about anything else.

Reorder is curiosity in action.

Reorder can be small things like seeing a t-shirt that says, “I met God, she’s black,” on it and then being excited when my sister got it for my birthday a few weeks later – a shirt I’m wearing while writing this.

Reorder can’t stomach conversations like: “How’s it going?” “Good, you?” “Good.” “Oh, Good.” Reorder has no interest in the surface level – it demands to go deeper. Reorder wants to know what gets someone out of bed in the morning – what makes them tick – and why?

Reorder can (and will) railroad friends and family with excitement and energy about this new way of being, but unlike Disorder it doesn’t get bitter when the feeling isn’t reciprocated because it knows that everyone else is on their own journey on their own timeline. Reorder knows that not everyone who doesn’t see the world the same I do is a bad person – they are just as beloved as the rest of us, even when it doesn’t feel like it. Reorder is the constant practice of patience and understanding, but maintaining that an inclusive, progressive approach is the right way.

Reorder is looking back at my Facebook profile and hardly recognizing the person on there, like it was from a past life, often feeling horrified at some of my “This day in history” notifications of previous posts throughout the years, making me wonder, “Would the version of me today even be friends with former me?” Reorder, though, doesn’t wipe it out and start over because Reorder knows that everything belongs. 

Reorder now looks back fondly on Order, and is no longer upset with former teachers and pastors, it knows that they were doing their best with the information they had. Reorder has no desire to go back and change anything because Reorder knows that every Bible class, Sunday school lesson, and chapel service on Tuesday mornings led to this specific journey. Reorder, again, knows that everything belongs.

Reorder is my same Uncle telling me about a progressive community like Gracepointe Church in Nashville, a place I had driven by 1,000 times and never noticed. Reorder introduces you to tons of like-minded people, restoring hope when Disorder made you feel like you were alone. Reorder’s excitement has me jumping in headfirst, sometimes forgetting that I’m new there and people don’t really know me yet, but the place felt like home the first time I walked in the building. Reorder is not the feeling of wearing the correct color jersey now, but realizing that the jersey color doesn’t matter, because a true representation of the Kingdom knows no labels.

Reorder longs to be around people who are fully alive, taking on life with the same level of curiosity and passion that Reorder knows so well. Reorder doesn’t have time for the mundane. Reorder is interested in those who have a desire to keep pushing forward, making me want to grab them by the hand and take off.

Reorder is still pursuing ideas that challenge my current way of thinking, understanding that I’m a perpetual student and the learning process is never over. Reorder is answering, “What’s next?” with even more books, poetry, meditations, podcasts – not staying still and waiting for the next Disorder, but rather lacing up my boots and going on the hunt for it.

Order, Disorder, Reorder is the pattern of growth, transformation, and any story worth telling. Reorder has the wisdom of knowing that the pattern really looks more like this: Order-Disorder-Reorder-Disorder-Reorder-Disorder-Reorder, and so on.

Reorder is the restoration of hope, and it has me excited for what’s to come.

I really thought I’d post something today in honor of the work of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Sure enough, as soon as I checked my various social media feeds early this morning, I could see the flood of quotes and memes already beginning.

My first thought was that I better get going on it because all the famous and most inspirational quotes would be “taken.” And, of course, I would be in a competition for the popularity of my posted quote, which would be, obviously, reflected in “Likes.”

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So what was this online phenomenon?

Today’s a huge day for social media posting about the clear stance we are all taking against the evils of racism. Right?

Our feeds are filled with our friends’ posts about social justice initiatives and civil rights activism. And our history of involvement, right?

Perhaps even your employer joined the online avalanche of voicing our support for Black America and other persons of color. Because that’s who they are, right?

Or, was it something else?

And I even carefully surveyed my own motives for desiring to post.

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So…let me restate what is actually happening in so many instances –

The Google search engine is very likely overheating today with white people’s queries for just the right Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. quote or meme – meaning one they haven’t seen on their feed, and one that will out-quote all the others previously posted.

Ahem…let it be clearly known that I’m speaking for myself at this point. But I have a feeling I have lots of company, because – after all – we are white people speaking of an injustice of which we have no personal experience.

No, we really don’t.

I love the quote that reminds us white males, “it’s like we were born on third base, but didn’t hit a triple.” Guilty!

So, what about all the MLK quotes and memes today?

Is it bandwagoning? A social media fad for today only?

Is it tantamount to the rush to get that photo displayed featuring your family in matching pajamas on Christmas Day. Or other follow-the-leader social media games?

I truly think, for a large number of us, we felt it’s something we should do today.

It probably makes us feel good.

It reduces a bit of white privilege guilt.

And, most definitely, it shows our family, friends, co-workers, and – especially — the persons of color we know just how progressive we are!

So, if you posted a MLK quote today, or thought about doing so (like me!) let’s consider our own personal motives.

No, really, I challenge us to take a moment and think about why we would post and why we might have selected that particular quote.

Above all, let’s be honest.

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I really have to believe that for many of us, the sad answer will be –

Yep, it’s just another social media bandwagon visual that’s posted today and out of our minds tomorrow. Because tomorrow isn’t MLK Day anymore.

Banks will open. Mail delivery will resume. School continues. Life goes on.

But we had our feel-good moment of social media attention.

Today, we at least did something for persons of color.

We joined so many others in making a timely statement, for all to see.

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So…how ‘bout it? For you, and for me?

Are we fad-following posters today?

Is it for show? Is it our day to stand up for our black friends, publicly? To make them feel good? Or make us feel better about ourselves?

Or is there more behind it? More substance? More action?

Dr. King’s daughter, Bernice, calls all the posting without action “#MLK Lite.” That’s a good one. And I need to hear that as much as anyone!

Are we really woke about racism?

And now that we’ve been so introspective regarding our own motives, I’ll go ahead and say it – A white person choosing the Dr. King we display on social media is a hallmark of white privilege. Our black friends see it as an attempt to reduce him to a few words instead of walking with him on the road he paved for others. Unless we are walking.

Go ahead, read that previous paragraph again. I have, many times now.

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Let’s take a step back for a few — what are our deepest thoughts about racism in the first place? What is our own personal experience? Do we see it as pervasive and systemic, even today? Do we know it really is a thing in 2021, and not just something terrible that happened on plantations and then maybe into the 1960s?

I am deeply ashamed and regretful for my own upbringing in regard to race. What I was told and what I saw modeled was racism in the extreme. Thankfully, my own childhood heart knew something wasn’t right about it. Even 50+ years later, it’s hard to expunge memories of, for instance, being warned to quickly lock car doors when a black person was near.

Is there something about your own upbringing that you still need to challenge? Or where we are today as we even hang onto unwanted racist tendencies?

What a great day for some goal setting! And some commitment to action!

I have definitely fallen short in the action category – even with the best of intentions.

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Which leads me to consider what I will do now to truly honor the legacy of Dr. King. Will you join me in answering some critical questions? 

Most critically, for all of us — what will we do now?  How will we walk with him? And especially in ways that will never make it on social media!

Seriously, if he were alive today would we march alongside Dr. King? 

Would we actively protest injustice?

Are we engaging in causes that positively impact Black America? Are we supporting candidates who advocate for persons of color?

Would we even talk to our employer about discriminatory policies?

Would we call out our uncle who told a racist joke at the dinner table? Incidentally, I had a dear uncle who was the brunt of family ethnic jokes, by virtue of his Hispanic heritage.

Have we met with our children’s or grandchildren’s school officials to ask for better teachings of black history? Or is that one art project in February enough of an education on race?

And what are we teaching our children and grandchildren about race? Have we discussed how we were raised and how dreadfully wrong our childhood perspective was? (at least in my case)

Do we name it and call out our own racism when it continues to seep out?

What is our heart response when we see a Black Lives Matter protest?

And what about those persons of color we personally know? Do we avoid conversations? Do we plug our ears to truths? Is it too painful for our white minds to comprehend?

If so, just imagine living it. Yeah…

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Okay…one more time…back to all those quotes and memes today…

Will we end up being a once-a-year-MLK-quote-poster as the well-intended extent of our civil rights activism? Or will we listen, learn, and engage?

Will we look at the sum total of Dr. King’s life and message – rather than just a single inspirational quote — and compare it to the way we now determine to live our life?

Throughout my lifetime, my privilege and power has placed me in such an advantageous position. Time and time again. A position I simply – and wrongly — took for granted was my due.

May I now use that power and privilege to stand up for others? For me, it will take courage and a transformation of intent into action.

Dr. King’s legacy is set.

White friends, what will ours now be? Will we be known for our online performances, or will we move far beyond #MLK Lite by pouring our all into the elimination of racism and injustice?

That’s a legacy worth posting about.

When I was in seventh grade, Julie Villareal stabbed my hand with her freshly sharpened pencil.

I don’t think any malice was intended, other than that rightfully intended for an annoying junior high boy.

We were at a large worktable in Shop class. This was the first year at Southwest Junior High that girls had to take Shop and guys had to take Home-Ec. We were making leather coasters and I’m sure I must have grabbed for a tool she was using, when Julie instinctively slapped my hand to stop me.

The problem was that she also had a pencil in her hand, the point of which is still imbedded in my left palm.

My first – and only – tattoo.

Although the mental scar isn’t permanent, I will forever have that little grey dot just below my thumb joint.

She made her mark. And it stuck.

But isn’t that the way it should be?

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I mean, when we make our mark, it should be way more about an indelible impression left on someone else, than it is about us.

So, just how are you doing in this mark-making business?

Do you even think about it? I mean, we are awful busy living our lives!

Regardless of our age, all of us are in the process of creating our legacy – that part of us that lives on after we have left this earth. And I’m not speaking of the genetics we pass on to family.

I’m talking about how we will be remembered.

In important ways.

And, way more critical, what impact we will make on those who follow us.

Actually, when our heart beats for the final time, our legacy is likely the most valuable, and the most lasting, thing we leave behind.

It’s our mark.

“He made his mark by…(fill in the blank).”

“Her lasting legacy is that…(yep, fill it in).”

We hear that all the time, don’t we? Make no mistake…we will leave one. And ours is being formed right now.

Here’s the thing –

Wouldn’t you like to have an active hand in shaping your legacy?

In creating the brand for your mark?

In crafting the impact that will be felt because we lived on this planet?

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That will require being…intentional. I mean, who in the heck wants our legacy to be formed haphazardly. Or as a by-product of what we did or – even worse — didn’t do?

The first step to intentionally making our mark is to meet the person who we really are. And I’m not sure a lot of us have.

Wait…what!?

I know, sounds a little crazy, but stay with me.

Most of us live our lives with a constant stream of ideas, thoughts, images, and feelings about who we are. We have a conception of ourselves.

But…

What if we did a 360 assessment? You know, ask our family, friends, co-workers, lots of people around us, about…us.

How do I frustrate you? What do people say behind my back? Use words to describe me?

Yeah, kinda scary.

Also, “how do I bless you?” And, “how are you encouraged by me?”

Okay, now we’re talking!

The point is, don’t just assume how you are. The world, your world, may see things differently. And that’s okay.

Much more accurate, really. And more fully who you are.

Be inquisitive. Have a desire to get to know the real you better. That person behind the figurative mask.

You might not even like this new acquaintance at first, but give yourself time to grow on you.

Doesn’t it make sense that the important first step in being intentional about your legacy, your mark, your brand – so to speak – is knowing that real you?

And at the deepest level – even behind our thoughts and feelings or others’ thoughts and feelings about us.

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It’s an even deeper knowledge than, say, your identity – those things that also define us to a degree…our roles, titles, job descriptions, achievements. You know, the kinds of things we use to describe ourselves in a group “getting to know you” exercise.

Granted, they give shape to a large part of our lives.

Yet so many of us hold tightly, and even cling, to only these identities.

But what if…poof!…they were gone? Either by your own doing, or if they’re taken away from you?

Just how wrapped up are you in how you’re defined by something that’s not necessarily permanent?

So, when you look beyond your external identities, you get a lot closer to the real, legit you.

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I come from a long line of obituary readers. My grandmother and mother paved the way for me to follow in their footsteps. For instance, when Mom was on vacation and would call to check-in, one of the first questions was always, “Who died?” And I better have known.

So, I’m still really into reading obits. And not morbidly so. I just love reading how family members have described their dearly departed. To be honest, it’s entertaining at times.

Some years ago, the obituary style format for The Ledger (Lakeland, FL) was to display a subhead under the person’s name – listing their occupation. So, if they had to be described in a word, or two or three, there it was –

Banker

Citrus Packer

Teacher

Laborer

Quality Control Supervisor

Nail Technician

Department Store Manager

Are you kidding me??  An entire life lived on this earth and here they are summed up…

by what they did?

By what they got paid to do.

I never got that and certainly never liked that style. I used to tell Susie to NOT list my occupation. If I had to be described in a subhead, I’d much rather be known as a

Coach. Or, a husband. A Dad. A recreational golfer. An impatient driver. Anything but a job.

But even these descriptors don’t begin to tell the story. My story. Your story. You see, they’re all about our identity.

So…forget the bio.

Go way beyond occupation, roles, accomplishments, honors, awards.

Know the you behind the you behind the you.

And then you’ll be that much closer to being intentional about the mark you’ll make…on others.

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And that word – others – is the key. The linchpin. The golden guinea.

Our mark is not about us.

I’ll say it again.

Our mark is not about us.

That’s who those identity things are for, if we must. The names on the buildings. The “Person of the Year” awards. The country club memberships.

To impress…us.

Making a mark, leaving a legacy. One that is lasting. It’s got to be about…others.

Now we’re talking about real jewels in our crowns.

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Case in point – my own grandfather. His life was influential on me and still is. I want to be as impactful to my own grandchildren. With him, it was all the little things.

Simple, but profound.

Maybe they weren’t so little after all.

For instance, I couldn’t have named it then, but he taught me about race relations.

In the south, in the 60s and 70s, and even being a self-described “Florida cracker,” he taught me not to judge others by the color of their skin. Ever.

And to elevate those less fortunate than us.

That’s the message I got from the way he lived his life. From just hanging around him.

And then, after his death, I found some of his campaign material when he ran for the Lakeland City Commission. Three were of note –

• He was behind the construction of restrooms for black people at Henley Field. Prior to this time, if a black baseball fan “had to go,” it was tough luck.

• He helped create the Lakeland Housing Authority, to provide quality, low rent homes and apartments for black families.

• He pushed for the construction of a swimming pool that could be used by black people. Up until then, the lakes were their only option, as they were not allowed in the whites-only Adair Park pool. And the number of lake drownings by black people was staggering.

But for me, his legacy was not restrooms, the pool that would eventually become Simpson Park, or the LHA. Those were accomplishments. As was his City Commission position.

His passion for leveling the playing field and seeking equity is a legacy that marks my thinking, to this day.

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So, what about you?

And me?

What are we doing even now to make our mark?

Which leads me to a final probing question.

Who among us truly wish to be forgotten?

Any raised hands?

You’ve probably heard that happens after about three generations. Like, who is currently talking about my great-grandfather? Or cares. I know of none (even though family legend has it that he did name Mulberry, FL).

The best way to not be forgotten is not in our accolades.

Never in our memberships.

And certainly not through our jobs.

But go ahead if that’s what you want to cling to – the stuff that makes the paper.

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I write this today because I’ve been thinking – struggling, actually — about my own mark, my legacy.

A lot lately.

I’m hoping you’ll come along on that journey with me.

When I bike along Tennessee by-ways, I’m aware that if my tire were to hit one of those tennis ball-sized black walnuts, I could be propelled into traffic.

Or, if my foot slips off that boulder while leaning over the racing white-water stream to get the perfect photo.

Yeah, I’ve kinda come to the conclusion that I’m not immortal. A cancer diagnosis five years ago helped with that.

By the way, when I read those obits, I’m often reminded of more wise words from my grandfather —

“We’re never assured of our next breath.”

As I consider these and other possibilities for my earthly demise…

I have recently voiced to Susie that I’m not quite sure if I have made a mark. Left a legacy.

One that truly counts. For others.

Her calm assurance of, “Well, that’s ridiculous…of course you have,” isn’t quite doing it for me.

So that’s why I’m committed to think deeply,

know myself better,

stay curious,

be intentional (the hardest part of all!),

and be focused on others.

And out of that, maybe something special will mark my life.

And make someone else’s better.

Time will tell.

Since “A History Of My Voting And Political Preferences” sounds horribly boring and lacks any intrigue whatsoever, I quickly forsook that opportunity for a title to the piece, below, which presents a history of my voting and political preferences. However, my reason for writing this document is to unpack the reasons I am now a Democrat. For some, I’ll be “preaching to the choir,” while others will feel I’ve lost my way. And – for one of the first times in my life – I don’t really care how you receive it. But if you have a desire to understand me a little better, then please read. Applaud or judge, but remember, it’s my story.

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I was looking forward to the fall of 1976, and the opportunity to cast my first-ever ballot for a Presidential election. 

I can still remember walking into one of my former classrooms at Southwest Junior High School in Lakeland, Florida, and then stepping into the voting booth. Those were the days of a little private chamber with a retractable curtain.

I was flush with a combination of excitement and nervousness as I turned the automated lever to record my vote. And by late that November evening, my voting success was 1-0 as Jimmy Carter – the Democratic candidate – was elected as the 39th President of the United States.

When I registered, soon after my 18th birthday in the summer of ‘76, I was assured I needed to be a Democrat, at least in terms of my voter registration. At that time, it seems that was substantially necessary to be able to vote in Polk County, because of the very small number of Republican candidates. 

So, Jimmy Carter was the perfect fit. 

He was a Democrat, and – more important – he was a staunch Southern Baptist – my denomination at the time, along with generations of my family, my girlfriend and her family, and so many of my close friends. In essence, Jimmy Carter was the Christian candidate, and he was even the right variety of Christian.

Good enough for me.

I don’t remember many political discussions in my family of origin. Maybe we had them, but – if so – they didn’t create a memorable impression. At least not in terms of my own voting convictions. And I just wasn’t into politics back then. I’m sure I had the typical arguments with school friends, but I don’t remember passionate feelings about issues. 

As clearly as I remember voting for Carter in 1976, I have no distinct memory of my voting preference four years later; however, I’m almost certain I voted for the Southern Baptist candidate once again. I mean, why wouldn’t Carter’s religious affiliation outweigh any deficiencies in his leadership of the country?

In keeping with my connected religious/political filter, by the 1984 election I was a believer in Ronald Reagan, who not only was the Republican candidate, but also was the one strongly supported by my evangelical Christian cohorts. He was saying all the right things and even mixing in a little Christian jargon. More importantly, he was voicing support for issues that had become important for followers of Christ. Walter Mondale’s liberal Democratic agenda was seen as a threat to so many things we held dear. Reagan, and Christianity, won.

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The Republican-Christian train continued rambling down the tracks in the 1988 election, as George H.W. Bush, behind my vote, easily defeated Michael Dukakis. 

By this time, I was firmly convinced that Republican candidates were somehow anointed of the Lord. And that line of thinking was supported by all those whose opinions mattered the most – friends from church. 

A mark of a true evangelical Christian was to remain loyal to the Republican Party. Case closed.

What kind of Christian would ever vote for a Democratic candidate – at any level of public office – local, state, or especially national?  I’ll tell you what kind…someone who truly didn’t understand the gospel. Plain and simple. And clearly someone in a liberal denomination who probably didn’t understand Jesus in the first place — like those over in the Methodist church. Oh, and the Episcopals, too.

Which makes it all the more amazing that Bill Clinton won the Presidency in both 1992 and 1996. 

Who the heck were all these people voting for this liberal draft-dodging, marijuana smoking Democrat? And what had gone wrong for George H.W. Bush and the Republican Party?

I mean, Clinton did have a comforting southern drawl and even Baptist credentials. But he was certainly not the poster child for evangelicals. Quite the opposite. 

And then there was his wife, Hillary Rodham Clinton. 

This raging liberal feminist even refused to take her husband’s name, until she relented and used it as an add-on to appease critics. How could these people occupy that revered residence on Pennsylvania Avenue?

The evangelical world – where I was unequivocally receiving my voting cues – was waiting and watching for any missteps to be made by the First Couple. 

And I was shaking my head right along with them.  

Along with the Christian Coalition, I was convinced our society was going to Hell in a hand basket with a radical liberal agenda that was promoting abortion, gay rights, and widespread sex education. 

Most alarming to so many of my evangelical Christian brethren was the Clintons’ support of the homosexual “agenda.” Why, the President was even for gays in the military! How the heck was that ever going to work!?

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It’s important to realize at this point that – for at least the past five or six years – much of our political opinion was patently shaped by Dr. James Dobson of Focus on the Family.  What responsible Christian family with young children wasn’t clinging to every word written or spoken by this iconic defender of family values? We were reading his books, listening to his daily radio show, and receiving his newsletter. His conservative stance was formative for us. 

Politically speaking, we subscribed to the Gospel According to Jim Dobson.

Finally, the inevitable of the Clinton Presidency happened, with the Monica Lewinsky affair – within the walls of the White House, nonetheless! I can remember Dobson and most other evangelical opinion leaders pouncing on this moral failure, with me on their coattails. 

But why would this behavior be unexpected? The liberal Democrats were insistent on reinventing so much of the social debauchery of the 1960s, right? The Clintons were now reaping the consequences of all they, and so many in their Party, had sown.

Once again, I cannot overstate how influential national evangelical leaders’ political opinions were on my own thinking. 

I bought in. 

The message was clear – the very soul of our nation was at stake. And the scandalous reign of Bill Clinton had taken us to a dangerous precipice. Something had to change.

Along with so many in our circle, I was thrilled when George W. Bush was elected in 2000. It’s significant, if not sad, that I truly didn’t know anyone in “my world,” who wasn’t a Bush supporter. 

To my knowledge, none of my closest friends or any co-workers were Democrats. And most certainly none of my co-workers after 2002 would vote Democratic. That’s when I began a long career at Lakeland Christian School. We all spoke the same political language. Maybe call it, Christo-Republican.

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Just for a moment, it’s important for me to address the nature of the impact of my Christian world on my electoral choices. 

As mentioned, we were clearly under the influence of James Dobson and other Christian authors whose mission was to protect the family. Although our thinking was largely shaped by national leaders in the evangelical world, our own church’s denomination – the Presbyterian Church in America – insulated us within an even tighter circle.  

Within the bubble of our denomination and church, we were never encouraged to be curious beyond certain recommended and “approved” thought leaders. 

In one of our local PCA churches, it seemed the most revered authors – ancient theologians — had to have been dead for several hundred years. 

God rest so many of their racist souls. 

And our most recent Lakeland PCA church had a few of its own patron saints, most of whom were still among the living. But we were never encouraged to venture very far away from the denominational center. 

This repressed curiosity stymied our growth in significant ways, not the least of which was the critical examination of those across the political divide. 

The Proverb, “Let your eyes look straight ahead; fix your gaze directly before you…do not turn to the right or left” could have been translated, “Cast not your eyes upon the Democrats…keep your feet from evil.” 

There were the Godless and then there were Democrats.

This line of thinking was not espoused from the pulpit, but was the obvious leaning from those within our inner circles. Although we certainly weren’t restrained from venturing out in our thinking, the prevailing mindset was an almost arrogant “Duh!!” regarding the correctness of the Republican platform. 

So I settled within the safe confines of our bubble. And continued blackening in the Republican ovals at every opportunity.

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This being the case, I truly had no understanding – and certainly not any appreciation – for the thinking of “the other side.” Being politically malformed, I was truly never even in a position – nor equipped — to debate or discuss. 

Was I judgmental? Absolutely. 

Politics aside, I mostly assumed that our Republican world was on a far different (superior) spiritual plane than the Democrats. Again, how could any Gospel-believing, legit follower of Christ support the liberal agenda?

Democrats were so scarce in my life, they stood out like a sore thumb. 

I still remember the Al Gore sign in a yard, up the street from our home on Clarendon Place. We didn’t know them, but always called them, “those Gore people.” Even recently, I was referring to a certain home on that end of the street and said, “you know…up there near those Gore people.” 

And I thought they were so gutsy, brazen, really, to actually mark themselves as among the enemy. And that’s how rare a Democratic vote seemed to be in my world, that they would stand out as people that just didn’t fit within my worldview – political or spiritual. With eyes not fully opened.

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So, why the Republicans, and why George Bush? Again, for me, he was the “anointed” Christian right-supported head of state. His faith seemed real and genuine. When he was governor of Texas, he began reading his Bible every morning. He talked about the sacredness of life. He referred to the decline of morality. 

We were finally going to get movement in the right direction.  

And nevermind his denominational affiliation in one of those churches that likely doesn’t even understand the gospel…he had a conversion experience as a middle-aged man, and claimed to be “born again.” 

Evangelicals promoting him as one of their own was all it took for me.

It was also about this time that we began faithfully resourcing a Christian voter’s guide. It was a legal-sized spreadsheet of sorts, listing the candidates and their stance on the critical issues – Abortion, the LGBTQ agenda, religious liberty, the Courts, Educational choice, etc. 

I’m sure we were also still under the strong influence of Focus on the Family voting recommendations. And for any added clarification, Susie could always ask questions of several more informed women in our church.

The evidence was overwhelming – a vote for the Republican candidate at all levels was a vote for the spread of Christianity and Christian values. So, we continued to follow suit, automatically darkening in the Republicans’ oval in all local, state, and national elections.

I should also point out that our support of Republican candidates truly had nothing to do with their fiscal policies. 

A legislator’s or President’s influence over the economy was never an issue to us. Even though we had a growing wealth base at this time, economic policy decisions were never a factor in our decision-making. Maybe it should have been. 

But it wasn’t, and isn’t.  

Although this sounds like a boasting of the lack of importance of money to us, it’s actually – sadly — a confession of our comfort level within our own white privilege. 

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By the 2008 Presidential election, our youngest child had graduated from high school and all three of our kids were in college. Our frequent consumption of all things Dobson was waning, mostly because we were now beyond the parenting of children in the home. 

However, our faithful following of Christian voter guide recommendations was still as strong as ever. 

And the evidence was clear – we should vote for the less-than-overwhelmingly-popular John McCain because he would continue to protect all that’s important to the faith-based world. We certainly wouldn’t support the Democratic candidate who seemed to be scary liberal…why, he even had the middle name of Hussein! Surely he would pose a serious threat to our values.

By election night, though, Barack Obama won the Presidency convincingly. 

Since my political world was so small, and guided by Christian opinion leaders, I was wondering – as I did when Clinton won – just who were all these people voting for the liberal Democrat. They clearly weren’t in my crowd. 

But then I learned that, indeed, some of my crowd, and in my very family, had voted for Obama. To my knowledge, this was the first “crossing of the line” by someone even in our extended family. 

It was family living way out west, though. Susie’s brother and his wife and kids.  But they lived in San Francisco, California, Portland, Oregon, and Spokane, Washington. So, as weird as it first seemed, it sort of made sense given they all lived on the “left coast.” Still, it seemed like a betrayal of (our) Christian values. 

Or maybe…just maybe…their view of Christianity, and Jesus, was somewhat different than ours. 

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In all honesty, though, my actual life didn’t seem to be affected through the years regardless of the occupant of the White House. To use a now-Presidential phrase, “it is what it is.” Sure, ever since my first couple of opportunities to cast a ballot decades ago, I had voted the straight Republican ticket, without exception. 

Yet my white, privileged, Christian life – and that of my family – had not suffered any direct impact regardless of the President’s Party. Sure I complained during the Clinton and Obama years – as is a Republican’s obligation — but even their liberal threats to our nation were of no obvious consequence to us.

However, after eight years of a Democratic President, the Republican/Christian message was clear: enough is enough…we must pour our all into supporting the 2016 Party platform, which would be faithfully carried out by the eventual nominee. 

We couldn’t let eight years of the moral slippery slope turn into twelve. The very fabric of our Christian nation, founded and maintained on Christian values, was once again at stake.

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The Republican Party’s nominee was the shocker of all shockers. 

Donald Trump, known to most as a business tycoon and now a reality television star, would now wave the Party’s banner and represent the platform so vital to the evangelical Christian world. 

In addition to his political inexperience, his character flaws were anything but hidden – his uber-bravado, arrogance, narcissism, liberal use of profanity, personal moral indiscretions, and bully persona. Oh, and his bragging of grabbing women in a most personal and private way.

But for Republicans, with the Christian voting bloc in tow, the mantra was “platform over person.” 

Yes, Trump made them squirm and was often an embarrassment during the campaign season, but the Party would just have to overlook any personal missteps to throw support behind this one – love him or hate him – who would right the nation’s ship.

Take a moment, now, and re-read the previous sentence. Please don’t overlook the fourth word, “them.” 

Because it was at this very point that the Republican Party was transformed from an “us” to a “them.” Our Conservative-Evangelical-Christian-Republican bubble had burst. 

Exploded, really. 

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This renegade candidate may have been the catalyst, but we began to discover there was another Party whose interests seemed to better align with our views…and – ironically — with the priorities of Jesus. 

Interestingly, our political pilgrimage took us back to the Party of our 18-year-old selves. It’s fair to say the journey has taken us to where we should have been all along. 

In 1976, the excitement of our first uninformed Presidential vote was wrapped up in the Southern Baptist candidate, and not in Party platform. 

By the 2016 election, we began a critical examination of the issues from a new and refreshing location outside the bubble. 

Previously, as you have read, our thinking was largely done for us, as we quickly fell in line with the expected evangelical Christian vote. However, through the filter of our emerging progressive Christianity, which truly adopts the message of the bracelet, it became crystal clear which Party – and which ’16 candidate — would ultimately do as Jesus would.

And in the 2016 election, the choice was clear. 

“I’m With Her.” 

It wasn’t a matter of the lesser of two evils. Not then, and not now.

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Okay, let’s not totally avoid the elephant in the room.

It would be very easy to blame this change of political persuasion solely on the unlikeable character qualities of Donald Trump. He definitely could be reason enough. But our newfound support for Democratic Party ideals transcends one person.

Any here’s why –

Since we had based so many decades of voting on the Christian-Republican connection, let’s start with the central figure of Christianity – Jesus.

First of all, I have serious doubts Jesus would even be allowed in a Trump-Republican America. He’s a dark-skinned itinerant, after all. He was homeless, associated with and advocated for the marginalized, and challenged the political powers. He preached about the dangers of materialism, the hazards of wealth, and urged compassion for the downtrodden at every turn. 

Jesus was clearly an anti-establishment activist, from his very core.

Unfortunately, fleeing for his life would be all too familiar to Jesus. He was a part of a family that fled the local government’s search for this one who would threaten their power. I could certainly picture a Jesus in current-day America being “sent back,” or even worse, being ripped from his mother’s arms and placed in a cage, Steven Miller style.

Financially, he would clearly be among the most vulnerable in the Republican taxing structure. And what about his healthcare? Let’s just hope he doesn’t have pre-existing conditions. 

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Now back to the lead elephant for a moment. 

As I open up the New Testament, I just can’t miss the dichotomy of Trump’s living out his “faith” with what I read of Jesus in the Gospels. His (lack of) mercy, purity, humility, decency, character, compassion, discreet behavior, and morality. 

Actually, there is no correlation. 

But this “anything except Christlikeness” of Trump isn’t refutable even among Christians. Yet, why are so many ignoring a daily display of behaviors that are clearly opposed to the character and priorities of Christ? 

From what I can tell, the “hold your nose, wince and vote Republican, regardless” practice of the evangelical Christian world comes down to a couple of critical issues – abortion, and the Supreme Court nominee.

I’ve personally heard, “yeah, I can’t stand Trump the person, but we need conservative judges.”  And, “What about all those unborn babies?”

Oh, and there’s a third reason – the uber-wealthy violating their own sense of morality to vote for the man and Party who will make them even richer. They are likely pinching their noses the tightest of all.

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So what about abortion? 

It’s certainly driving a large part of evangelicals’ politics. And Christian Republicans would have you believe that Democrats are lining up to hold open the doors for women seeking abortion.

Not so fast…

The truth is, the numbers of abortions have been steadily decreasing since 1980, regardless of the Party of the White House.  The abortion rate AND ratio have declined during pro-life and pro-choice Presidencies. There has even been a greater rate of decline, though, during Democratic Administrations. 

And the rates especially declined under the Obama Presidency. 

Donald Trump’s influence in this important arena? Trump has not signed a single significant piece of pro-life legislation. And…Planned Parenthood received a record-high taxpayer funding last year. So, the current President is anything but an anti-abortion stalwart. 

But go ahead and vote for him, fellow Christian, if you must.

And don’t even get me started on the many other ways he’s clearly not pro-life…

Democrats, on the other hand, seek to reduce abortions through means other than outright banning. Such as…more aggressive pregnancy prevention in the first place, including education and affordable/accessible contraception (i.e. the Affordable Care Act), increased levels of financial and other forms of support to people who are facing unplanned pregnancies, access to healthcare for both the mother and the child – both during the pregnancy and following delivery, increased accessibility to adoption, and improved conditions for children in foster care.

I am pro-life (from conception to grave) and wish there weren’t abortions. 

And I am for the approach – and all the ensuing financial, medical, and social policies — that offers women help and hope all along the way. I join with so many other Democrats in seeking to reduce abortions through these critical measures that will encourage women that abortion is not their only option. 

THAT seems to be the best way to be pro-life. 

So, what about voting for Trump – or any Republican, really – because of the Supreme Court implications. As it relates to abortion, high court decisions have been stable and intact for nearly 30 years. And only one Justice out of nine has stated that the two cases securing a constitutional right to an abortion are bad law. 

So, if one would vote for Trump primarily for what could happen in the Supreme Court, the historical record doesn’t support your rationale.

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And guess what, single-issue Christian? Why is abortion the only thing that matters?

Is it the only thing that matters to Jesus? I think not.

Although I am solidly in the anti-Trump camp, the reason I have a Biden/Harris sticker on my car goes far beyond the politics of this one individual. And it transcends the unholy bonding the Republican Party has formed, as the GOP has become the party of Trump. 

Come to think of it, I really should apologize to “those Gore people.” Oh – and while I’m at it – to fellow congregants in Episcopal and Methodist churches I’ve now attended.

Again, for me, the shortcomings of Trump and his allies are only magnifiers of how I should have felt all along. Remember, my personal political history book is, “Everything You Always Wanted To Know About The Democratic Party, But Weren’t Allowed To Ask.”

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Now enjoying real life outside the bubble, here’s what I’ve discovered and embraced —

And it’s my very Christianity – knowing, studying, and following Jesus – that has pointed me to a more liberal strain of politics. 

The notion that left-leaning values and Christianity are incompatible couldn’t be further from the truth, for me. In fact, critical Democratic policies more closely align with my emerging progressive values.

For instance, on just a few of the issues —

Care for the poor, underprivileged, marginalized and minorities is of utmost importance. And seen on almost every page of scripture, such as, “whoever is generous to the poor lends to the Lord.” Widespread policies benefiting these groups are a core tenet of the Democratic Party. Yet, the GOP has long opposed social welfare policies. 

Care for the environment and action on climate change goes all the way back to Creation, with our instruction to “cultivate and care” for our world.

Immigration policies should reflect the many “love your neighbor as yourself” admonitions. The Party wanting to build the wall will never have my vote. And there is not a bit of “be kind and compassionate to one another” when families are separated at the border, and children are placed in cages. 

Access to affordable healthcare – for all – is now personal to me. In my current role as a consultant I am – for the first time in my adult life – not connected to a group health insurance plan. I found that without the Affordable Care Act (Obamacare!), I was uninsurable because of my history of cancer. 

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I certainly don’t feel that Christianity and liberalism are synonymous. But neither is Christianity and conservative politics. No one party is perfect, and no one party represents the Kingdom of God. 

Our faith, as it relates to politics, is complicated. 

But it does inform us.

And, now, my faith (which was developed in a white life of privilege) leads me to support those candidates I feel give the most vulnerable and under-rated – unborn babies, the poor, the marginalized, people of color, indigenous people, women, immigrants, the elderly, the sick — their best shot. 

So, that’s where I am. 

It’s been my journey, and it’s my story. 

Although I was convinced I always voted my convictions, I regret not being a deeper thinker regarding all things politics. My comfort zone was going with the flow.

And that’s why I’m a proponent of a lifetime of curiosity. 

So, thank you, curiosity, for rising up and making me uncomfortable. 

Thank you, curiosity, for not allowing me to settle. 

Thank you, curiosity, for the courage to step into a new arena and embrace a new platform. 

It’s great to be home.

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