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Sunday, October 25, 2009

Nelson Mandela Quotes
Category: Life

Nelson Mandela is a South African political activist, co-winner of Nobel Peace Prize with F.W. de Klerk in 1993, and in 1994 he became the first President of South Africa to be elected in fully-representative democratic elections. Previous to that, he had been imprisoned unjustly for 27 years because of his anti-apartheid views and activism to bring about social equity for all in South Africa.

Mandela's inauguration brought together the largest number of Heads of State since the funeral of US President John F. Kennedy in 1963. After he retired the presidency in 1999, he went on to become an advocate for a variety of social and human rights organizations and greater international cooperation. He is one of the world's most visible figures regarding race relations and is a symbol to many people of the struggle for racial equality.

Here are some of my favorite Mandela quotes. Let me know which ones resonate with you.

A good head and a good heart are always a formidable combination.

After climbing a great hill, one only finds that there are many more hills to climb.

No one is born hating another person because of the color of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite.

And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.

Education is the most powerful weapon which you can use to change the world.

For to be free is not merely to cast off one's chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others.

I detest racialism, because I regard it as a barbaric thing, whether it comes from a black man or a white man.

There can be no keener revelation of a society's soul than the way in which it treats its children.

I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.

There is no such thing as part freedom.

If there are dreams about a beautiful South Africa, there are also roads that lead to their goal. Two of these roads could be named Goodness and Forgiveness.
Man's goodness is a flame that can be hidden but never extinguished.
If you talk to a man in a language he understands, that goes to his head. If you talk to him in his language, that goes to his heart.

If you want to make peace with your enemy, you have to work with your enemy. Then he becomes your partner.

In my country we go to prison first and then become President.

The greatest glory in living lies not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.

There is no easy walk to freedom anywhere, and many of us will have to pass through the valley of the shadow of death again and again before we reach the mountaintop of our desires.

There is no passion to be found playing small - in settling for a life that is less than the one you are capable of living.

We must use time wisely and forever realize that the time is always ripe to do right.

It is better to lead from behind and to put others in front, especially when you celebrate victory when nice things occur. You take the front line when there is danger. Then people will appreciate your leadership.

Money won't create success, the freedom to make it will.

As I have said, the first thing is to be honest with yourself. You can never have an impact on society if you have not changed yourself... Great peacemakers are all people of integrity, of honesty, but humility.

True reconciliation does not consist in merely forgetting the past.

We are really appalled by any country, whether a superpower or a small country, that goes outside the U.N. and attacks independent countries, No country should be allowed to take the law into their own hands.

As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

It always seems impossible until its done.

A new society cannot be created by reproducing the repugnant past, however refined or enticingly repackaged.

I am not a saint, unless you think of a saint as a sinner who keeps on trying.

Currently listening:
The Whirlwind
By Transatlantic
Release date: 2009-10-26

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Sunday, October 18, 2009

The Augur of Autumn's Leaves
Category: Life

The last 5 days I’ve been driving through Indiana and Kentucky. Seeing the riveting display of autumn’s final shout before giving-in to the inevitable next cycle of life got me thinking…

Last April, these hills became filled with greens, mostly very similar to each other. Young buds of rebirth and youthfulness. As spring evolved into summer, the trees were reaching skyward in their most accelerated time of growth, striving to gain more sunlight than their neighbors. The leaves are nature’s food factories, soaking up water and carbon dioxide to generate sugar. Through the energy provided by light, “photosynthesis” as I recall from my biology classes, there is spectacular advancement.

Besides the warming light, however, there needs to be moisture. It can come via glooming sprinkles, or frightening torrential downpours. It can sometimes hang thick in the air as sweltering humidity. It can appear as clammy, cold dew throughout each evening. What often appears as too much of it can accumulate as puddles, or bogs, or floodwaters overreaching nearby stream banks. Even the freezing snow and ice of the previous winter helped strengthen the roots and hardwood portions when everything else appeared dead on the outside. Unless the water becomes stagnant and inundates a tree, however, there can rarely be such a thing as too much moister. The growth pattern drinks it up, and stores it for future needs.

We all know that water can be a fun diversion for a time—but after a few hours of fun, it becomes a frustration. Often we are more interested in the happiness that it can bring in shorter increments, but forget that the ongoing consistency, even relentlessness of moisture is what is needed, along with the warmth and energy of God’s illumination, to help sustain us in times to come when the inevitable cycle of life will not provide the same levels. Perhaps this is the depth and meaning of joy—the felt knowing that we are being cared for, even when it may not make us happy, or even feels a bit uncomfortable at particular stages.

During fall and then winter, there is not enough light nor water for photosynthesis to continue. The trees will rest, and live off the food they stored during the summer. The bright greens fade away, and we begin to see yellow and orange colors. Small amounts of these have been in the leaves all along—we just can’t see them in the summer because they are covered up with green chlorophyll of youth and discovery.

The combination of all these circumstances—when the sun’s warmth and moisture both lessen--leads to a much different kind of blooming—the fabulous fall foliage.

We can see the uniqueness of each type of trees’ transformation. American Chestnuts, 6 types of Oaks, Aspens, Sugar Maples and 4 other Maple cousins, Dogwoods, Sassafras, Black Cherries, Choke Cherries, Fire Cherries, Elms, Buckeyes, Ashes, Sycamores, a quintet of different Hickories, and Beeches, to name but a few. Like snowflakes and fingerprints, no two are alike. And each one is fully realized in its own way. It is as if they are celebrating all that they have learned and endured that summer. Their maturity and character on glorious display.

This final fling of exuberance comes out in scarlet, tope, mauve, royal purple, dandelion yellow, even some like orange sherbet. Hillside mosaics featuring brass, cranberry, blood red, various chocolates, magenta, osage, and a sprinkling in a sea foam tint. Pastiches of burnt sienna, maroon, salmon, lavender, and goldenrod. Fruity pigments like peach, lemon, plum, Granny Smith apple, tangerine, banana, watermelon, mango, and lime. Some licked in flaming yellows with torched, fire-engine red edges. I even saw the Oakland A’s uniforms from the early 70’s dappled in some groves. Like a fluorescent Peter Max painting, the kaleidoscope of color pulsates with each gust of wind, and mutates in various hues and combinations with each passing day. If it had been a dry summer, none of this would look like it does now.

This all adds to my pondering about the cycles of my life. Maybe it’s due to the fact I’m about to celebrate another birthday, or that I recently finished my Last Will and Testament. Perhaps it all the time I spend with my aging father in a retirement community with other souls in their final glory, or that I’m still grieving the loss of four friends in the past 10 months. The wind and cold will finally have their say, no matter how hard we wish otherwise. When we see a few straggling leaves that are hanging on, it is not attractive. By not letting go, we end up embarrassing ourselves and the dignity of our role. In the process, we miss out on the deeper joy that comes from knowing this is all part of the plan.

Even in the regular, tighter cycles of our lives when the winter winds begin to blow, it’s best to bow in humility. And we also need to yield for our cleansing, our scrubbing away. This can only happen when we are stripped. Hopefully, with each new round we learn to acquiesce to the de-clothing with a willing heart. That surrender is part of the joy. Like an infant who often initially kicks and screams before a bath, but then can be cooing as her mother carefully washes and wipes away to prepare for re-dressing.

Soon enough, there will a fresh robing in vibrant greens come next spring. And hence, the cycle continues. So I want to enjoy the colorful celebration of what I’ve experienced this year. Some dark, murky, and even dank colors for sure. But those are the ones that give perspective for the exuberant tones. Beauty, what Aristotle called “the magnitude of truth,” comes from these contrasts. And the deepest joy results in an unmatched vista.

Currently reading:
The Blue Sweater: Bridging the Gap Between Rich and Poor in an Interconnected World
By Jacqueline Novogratz
Release date: 2009-03-03

4:13 PM

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Sunday, October 11, 2009

M. Scott Peck on Jesus
Category: Religion and Philosophy

I was absolutely thunderstruck by the extraordinary reality of the man I found in the Gospels. I discovered a man who was almost continually frustrated. His frustration leaps out of virtually every page: “What do I have to say to you? How many times do I have to say it? What do I have to do to get through to you?” I also discovered a man who was frequently sad and sometimes depressed, frequently anxious and scared…a man who was terribly, terribly lonely, yet often desperately needed to be alone. I discovered a man so incredibly real than no one could have made him up.

It occurred to me then that if the Gospel writers had been into PR and embellishment, as I had assumed, they would have created the kind of Jesus that three quarters of Christians still seem to be trying to create…portrayed with a sweet, unending smile on His face, patting little children on the head, just strolling the earth with this unflappable, unshakable equanimity…But the Jesus of the Gospels—who some suggest is the best-kept secret of Christianity—did not have much “peace of mind,” as we ordinarily think of “peace of mind” in the world’s terms, and insofar as we can be His followers, perhaps we won’t either.

-M. Scott Peck, Further Along The Road Less Traveled....

2:58 PM

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Saturday, October 03, 2009

Top 60 Albums
Category: Music

Since the Album format seems to be on its last gasp this year, here is my tribute to the cherished memory of 45-90 minutes of uninterrupted listening entertainment.

My “Most Listened To” Album List is not what I consider the “Best” nor are they “Most Critically Acclaimed” albums, just the ones I’ve listened to the most. To make it more interesting, the List is limited to just one album from each artists, and “Greatest Hits” compilations are included. I currently have close to 2,000 in my collection, and at one point it was over 6,000…so there are a lot to choose from.

You’ll also notice a fair amount of “Live” albums. Since I have been a concert connoisseur for 35 years, I often find that an artist’s ability to perform their best songs in concert and to relate to their audience is even more moving to me.

So here is my current Top 60 in no particular order (this list might look different a year from now depending on my mood):

Bruce Springsteen and E Street Band “Live From New York”
Yes “Yesshows”
U2 “Joshua Tree”
King’s X “Gretchen Goes to Nebraska”
Midnight Oil “Diesel and Dust”
David Wilcox “East Asheville Hardware”
Transatlantic “Live from Europe”
Don Henley “End of the Innocence”
Rossini “Collection of Overtures”
Kansas “Two for the Show” (2008 reissue)
John Hiatt “Slow Turning”
Rick Elias and the Confessions
Genesis “Seconds Out”
Police “Regatta de Blanc”
Rush “Different Stages”
Mussorgsky “Pictures at an Exhibition”
Gentle Giant “Live: Playing the Fool”
Dixie Dregs “California Screamin’”
Mark Heard “Second Hand”
Squeeze “A Round and a Bout”
Led Zeppelin “Houses of the Holy”
Cheap Trick “In Color”
Roy Buchanan “Livestock”
Black Sabbath “Master of Reality”
Emerson, Lake, and Palmer “Trilogy”
Monte Montgomery “Live at Caravan of Dreams”
Muse “Absolution”
Cream “Wheels of Fire”
Liszt “Hungarian Rhapsodies”
Simon and Garfunkle “Greatest Hits”
Resurrection Band “Colours”
Focus “3”
Deep Purple “Made in Japan”
Duncan Brown “The Wild Places”
Allman Brothers Band “Live at the Fillmore”
Jeff Beck “Blow by Blow”
Steely Dan “Greatest Hits”
Journey “Live in Houston ‘81”
The Who “Who’s Next”
Supertramp “Crisis? What Crisis?”
Jesus Christ Superstar (brown album)
Thin Lizzy “Fighting”
Crack the Sky “Live Sky”
Bob Bennett “Lord of the Past”
Peter Gabriel “So”
Chagall Guevara “Chagall Guevara”
Frank Marino and Mahogany Rush “Live”
Bob Dylan “Oh Mercy”
Bruce Cockburn “Waiting for a Miracle”
Pat Travers “Makin’ Magic”
J. Giels Band “Full House”
Daniel Lanois “Acadie”
Jethro Tull “Live Busting Out”
Shawn Phillips “Transcendence”
Queen “Live Killers”
The Waiting “Blue Belly Sky”
Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band “Nine Tonight”
Phil Keaggy “The Wind and the Wheat”
The Beatles “1967-1970”
Chicago “At Carnegie Hall”

9:43 PM

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Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Lord Save Us From Your Followers
Category: Movies, TV, Celebrities

Bumpersticker Man

One of the more thought-provoking documentaries, and certainly the most relevant to our agitated national discourse, finally hits the theaters this weekend. Lord Save Us From Your Followers was produced, directed, and MC'd by independent film maker Dan Merchant, and is based on his book by the same name. Having read the book, and seen the movie at least 6 times (I own an advance DVD), I can highly recommend it as stimulating towards an honest conversation that we need to have in our culture. I'm not the only one who thinks so...it has been recognized at 5 film festivals (winning awards at several), and has received glowing reviews from USA Today, Chicago Sun Times, The Today Show, Relevant Magazine, and many more. For the the cinema trailer, check this out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qJRvUtL2H58 The film opens Sept. 25 in Nashville, Atlanta, Houston, Portland, San Antonio, and Seattle. I'm getting a group together this Sunday (Sept. 27) for the 4:55 PM show at Green Hills Cinema in Nashville. We'll meet in the upper lobby at 4:30. Let me know if you would like to join us, and then have discussion over coffee afterwards. For more specific info on the film, locations/show times in other cities, press, etc. go to the official website: http://www.lordsaveusthemovie.com/ Here's an overview: If you were to meet ten average Americans on the street, nine of them would say they believe in God. So why is the Gospel of Love dividing America? Dan Merchant put on his bumper-sticker-clad jumpsuit and decided to find the reason. After talking with scores of men and women on streets all across the nation, and also interviewing many well-known activists in today’s “Culture Wars,” Dan realized that the public discussion of faith doesn’t have to be contentious. From its opening Talking Heads sequence through its touching look at faith in action, Lord Save Us From Your Followers is a fast-paced, highly engaging documentary that explores the collision of faith and culture in America while opening up this important conversation to all of us. As discussion of religion floods the media, the rhetoric is divisive, hyper, and most often, angry. With humor more common in a comedy-sketch program than a documentary, Merchant brings the sensibilities of someone who is deeply concerned with how his faith is being represented by others. Lord Save Us provides a provocative, funny, and redemptive discussion that is sure to continue long after the credits run. Merchant sits down for interviews with well-known people on all sides of this great divide, including best-selling author William Paul Young (The Shack), comedian/politician Al Franken, former “Religious Right” Senator Rick Santorum, noted “liberal evangelical” Tony Campolo, conservative radio host Michael Reagan, and racial reconciliation activist Dr. John Perkins. If that’s not divergent enough, other features include Bono, Rick Warren, Bill Maher, James Dobson, George Clooney, Jerry Falwell, Stephen Colbert, Ann Coulter, Pat Robertson, Lewis Black, Tony Perkins, Monty Python, and even Stewie from “Family Guy”… along with many others Add to that the nationwide man-on-the-street interviews with “Bumper-Sticker Man,” the Culture Wars game show, the “renaming” of St. Paul to New Leningrad, and a controversial and moving “Confession Booth” at Portland’s Gay Pride celebration, and Lord Save Us From Your Followers delves into religious hot-button issues with candor, humor, and balance. Engaging, unpredictable, and challenging, Lord, Save Us From Your Followers will change the way you talk about faith! Here's an interview with Dan Merchant on the Today Show: http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/21134540/vp/24047551#24047551 Remember, let me know if you'd like to join our group for Sunday afternoon's showing. : )

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Sunday, September 20, 2009

U2 Concert Review, Soldier Field, Chicago, Sept. 13, 2009
Category: Music

The cloudless skies above Chicago’s lakefront were finally darkened for a night time launch of U2’s mammoth 360 Tour. Massive not only in its ambition (planned for 130 shows in at least 30 countries on 6 continents), but also the scope of the presentation itself. The first of the North American shows had reached orbit the night before at refurbished Soldier Field. Critics had claimed when the venerable 75 year old stadium got its facelift and reconstruction five years ago that it appeared that a mongoloid flying saucer had landed on top of the Romanesque colonnades. Now, that image was made complete with the gargantuan “Claw” stage that the lads from Ireland had to present this latest globetrotting escapade.

Four billowing smoke machines each stationed at the base of one of the muscular legs began dusting the stage beneath, hearkening blast-off of a Saturn rocket at Cape Kennedy. The image of a 4 story-high clock emanated from the 54 ton cylindrical screen hovering overhead, and the familiar strains of David Bowie’s “Space Oddity” seared through the roar of the crowd, which quickly began singing along…

This is ground control to Major Tom
You’ve really made the grade

They hadn’t even entered the view of the 70,000 in attendance, and the coliseum was already up for grabs. The Dubliners have never been wont for the dramatic entrance. It reminded me of 28 years ago when I saw them just a few miles away at the storied Park West nightclub with 600 others packed inside, and the pimply-faced quartet was led up to the stage by the 20 members of the Chicago Irish Bagpipe Ensemble to the strains of “Amazing Grace.” Then, as on this night, it was drummer and group founder Larry Mullen Jr. who came on stage first, pounding out the initial drum line of the opening number. Nearly 3 decades ago it was “Gloria” from their just-releasedOctober album, and the band exploded into an evening of gut-wrenching honesty and praise. This night it was “Breathe,” considered by many the defining song of their 12th album, No Line on the Horizon. And, once again, it foreshadowed 150 minutes of soul-searching and celebration that only U2 and their fans can deliver.

As the accompanying instrumentation built up over Mullen’s creative pattern, the other members appeared out of the darkness. First bassist Adam Clayton, then guitarist The Edge, and finally Bono sauntered up to center stage, grabbing the mic with his bravado and…it was on.

Walk out, into the sunburst street
Sing your heart out
I’ve found grace inside a sound
I found grace, it’s all that I found
And I can breathe, breathe now

In the 14 previous times seeing the band, I had only been on the main floor once—that for one of the two nights at Sun Devil Stadium in Phoenix for the Rattle and Humfilming in 1987. This time around, with friends Debbie, Paul, and Amy joining me on the trek northward from Tennessee, we arrived early enough a few hours before show time to take possession of a prime spot in the G.A. standing area just 150 feet dead center back from the primary stage, and 40 feet from the outer ring walkway that encircled the rest. The enormous sound and lighting rig that rose 14 stories was directly above us. We were going to get stereophonic sound and one of the best views of the entire undertaking of anyone in attendance.

Even though we were exhausted from 8 hours of wandering about the sights of Grant Park before the show, the mixture of the our fellow attendees’ elation and exuberant outpouring from the world’s biggest band was going to keep us positively poised the rest of the night.

The guys started with quadruple shot of material from the new CD, with the whooping and wailing of the euro trash dance rhythms of the title track coming next, then the frenetic “Get On Your Boots” with it’s “Joyful, Joyful We Adore Thee” Wesleyan hymn intro, and then their own old-school-sounding praise number, “Magnificent,” letting us know that this was not a band satisfied with being a touring jukebox of golden oldies.

After Bono greeted the crowd in earnest for the first time, Edge began the familiar guitar signature of “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For,” a tune not often played by the band in the past 4 American tours. It sent the crowd into a frenzy as lead singer implored “It’s time to go to church!” and everyone gladly came along. It was one of those classic U2 moments where the throng was louder than the band in their vocal accompaniment.

You wouldn’t think things could get livelier, but when the raucous fuzz tone/wah-wah peddle distortion of “Elevation” began and Bono teased us yelling “We’re gonna turn you loose now!” However, the stadium needed no encouragement as the throng began to shake while jumping and bopping along. Even the top row of the furthest balcony was on its collective feet boogying to the infectious groove.

What followed next was unique in U2 annals…the debut live reading of a song they had written 14 years previously, “Your Blue Room.” Composed and performed for a little known Brian Eno Original Soundtracks album under the moniker of Passengers, this was a hauntingly beautiful melody that had footage from a Russian cosmonaut who recited some of the lyrics as poetry from his weightless space station on the prodigious screen. But due to its obscurity, it served as the only misstep of the night, really slowing down the thrust that had been forged in the first 35 minutes.

One of my faves from the new album, “Unknown Caller,” ensued. The benevolent lyrics of a redeemer calling out to those who would listen punctuated the mammoth shield, prompting those not as familiar with it to sing along with the triumphant music…

Re-start and re-boot yourself
You’re free to go
Shout for joy if you get the chance
Password, you enter here, right now
You know your name so punch it in
Hear me; cease to speak that I may speak
Shush now
Then don’t move or say a thing

After two lesser-known songs in a row it might prove difficult to regain momentum for most groups in a venue that huge, but when they lurched into an aggressive—even angry—rendition of “Until the End of the World,” the joint came to life again. This song may be the preeminent example of U2’s reckless rock’n’roll abandon, fueled by the imaginary conversation between Judas and Jesus on the night of his betrayal. As the raging guitar solo punched the early autumn air towards the end of the piece, Bono sprinted several hundred yards around the circumference of the outer ring only to symbolically collapse under the weight of God’s relentless grace…as if to say we can’t outrun His love.

As he writhed on the walkway, breathing heavily into his mic while the crowd’s bluster died down, it was one of those “what is he gonna do now?” moments that make Bono so special. He eventually calmed from a tortured, tensed demeanor to laying flat on his back with his arms outstretched in release and acceptance as Edge came walking across one of the motorized bridges from the main stage. He was gently picking on an acoustic guitar the opening sequence of another not-oft-played number from the Zooropa album. But the gathering sang along boldly to the duet that the two performed of “Stay (Faraway So Close),” and it came across as a plea from an adoring father towards his prodigal to come home…

If I could stay, the day would keep its trust
Stay with the demons that you drowned
Stay with the spirit that I found
Stay and the night would be enough

It’s three o’clock in the morning
It’s quiet and there’s no one around
Just the bang and the clatter
As an angel runs to ground

This led into a trio of songs where the fantastic computer screen above the group took over and became like a fifth member. On the rarely played title track from their fourth album, The Unforgettable Fire, the orchestral stabs and Bono’s falsetto perfectly matched the wondrous effects where the 200 foot cylinder slowly slid downward, unfolding like a slinky showing over 1,000 individual elongated hexagonical panels each filled with hundreds of LED lights. Deep violets, brilliant scarlet, and sunrise gold washed across while blending with images of the members as they played (these images along with many others are featured in my U2 Photo Album on this profile).

When Edge began the shimmering six string line of “City of Blinding Lights,” the rig revealed even more tricks with thousands more red LED lights on the inside of the cone creating a swirling effect while the outer panels blinked with a cornucopia of every imaginable color cascading downward. Bono pulled a 9 year-old boy from the crowd and strode, hand-in-hand, the length of the walkway, emphasizing the song’s message of hope for the future despite its many challenges.

Then, with Bono ready to propel us with the now famous verbal count-off of “Vertigo,” a rowdy rendering once again had the triple-decked amphitheater rocking, and images of the band swirling at racetrack speed around the humongous display. I can only imagine how dizzying it looked to those further back in the bowl.

Not letting the foot off the accelerator, they careened into a manic disco house mix version of “I’ll Go Crazy If I Don’t Crazy Tonight” complete with lots of call-backs from Bono and the fans. Larry donned a bongo with a strap that allowed him to march the perimeter pounding away on the backbeat.

As the crowd caught its breath, the huge screen turned fluorescent green and various images of the people’s protest and uprising in Iran were melded together. Bono then dedicated “this freedom song to our brothers and sisters in Iran who need our encouragement” as Larry began the staccato drill-corps pattern to “Sunday Bloody Sunday.” U2 has continually made this song relevant by tying-in with the sadly never-ending parade of political unrest that smothers parts of our world. Originally written for the conflicts in Northern Ireland, it has also been employed to spotlight South African apartheid, Serbian atrocities, the injustice of Darfur Sudan, the Contra/Sandinista battles of Central America, and the Iraqi occupation. And it rings just as true with each telling.

Serving as a gentle segue, Bono reminded us of the band’s long-standing relationship with Amnesty International, and spoke with deep concern over the unjust jailing of popularly elected Prime Minister of Burma, Aung San Suu Kyi for the past two decades. The tender, sad strains of MLK were sent out as a prayer of remembrance to her.

Immediately thereafter, as the band initiated “Walk On” as a further exhortation to strive for justice, many in the crowd donned the cut-out cardboard mask of Aung San’s face that was included in the concert program. During the final choruses, over a hundred audience members that had been chosen encircled the stage with those same masks as silent sentinels reminding us that we can and should speak up for those who can’t speak for themselves, as Proverbs 31: 8 instructs us.

When the band left the stage, tens of thousands of cell phone were opened and held aloft, this century’s homage to the lit cigarette lighter from days gone by. As they returned, Bono asked the crowd to wave them even more to create a pulsating star field of witnesses, as we all sang in accord with the passionate plea…

One life
With each other
Sisters
Brothers
One life
But we’re not the same
We get to
Carry each other
Carry each other
One

As Bono is so talented at doing, he blended the end of that into an acapella version of “Amazing Grace” which every soul present gladly partook-in. After the second chorus, an image of Archbishop Desmond Tutu of South Africa appeared on the screen. He buoyed all of us with good news about progress on the continent because of the One Campaign—over 3 million lives being prolonged due to anti-retroviral drugs to combat HIV/AIDS, over 34 million new children now in school that weren’t five years ago, deaths from malaria being cut in half in Rwanda, Ethiopia, and Zambia due to mosquito nets and vaccines. It was not a guilt trip, but rather a positive report card to instill even more resolve that many of these issues do have answers if we’re willing to get involved.

When his visage began to fade, the monstrous screen transformed into an intense orange orb as the subterranean tones of U2’s most famous hymn began shaking the foundations. The stadium was awash in a glow that accompanies a new day, the sun rising, bringing life and hope equally to all, even those who are forgotten in places “Where the Streets Have No Name.” Over the decades this has become the signature song of their concerts, even though it was never a single. It never fails to bring tears as the ebullient, shiny notes of Edge’s Stratocaster, Adam’s driving bass, and a blast of nearly atomic light bathes the arena and signals a roar that continues unabated for nearly four minutes. In my mind, it is just a hint of what heaven will be like…

And when I go there
I go there with you
It’s all I can do

After a three minute standing ovation, the boys return for their second encore, the stage enveloped in deep purple mist as Bono came out with a jacket laced with hundreds of tiny laser red lights punctuating the air with needle-like shafts of light. They pounced on another song long-ignored from their catalogue, the infectious “Ultraviolet” from Achtung Baby, as the iconoclastic Irishman grabbed the illuminated microphone swing hanging from the scaffolding above and swayed, twisted, and floated back and forth across the ellipse.

This led into what became the world’s largest sing-along for “With or Without You,” the stadium steeped in white light for the stratospheric choruses and everyone singing full-throat to the enigmatic refrain.

Finally, as the pulsating horde began to subside, the haunting chord progression of the underrated “Moment of Surrender” from the new album set the tone for the evening’s benediction. A soulful, Peter Gabriel-esque groove and melody that beckons a heartfelt petition…

It’s not if I believe in love
But if love believes in me
Oh, believe in me
At the moment of surrender
I folded my knees

Like many other elements of the concert, it was not an expected closing, but it worked on many levels. We all felt full and drained at the same time as we exited the arena floor, damp from sweat despite the 68 degree evening and no humidity. It didn’t dawn on us until we were striding on the two mile walk back to the car that they hadn’t played “Pride, In the Name of Love,” “New Year’s Day,” “Bad,” “Mysterious Ways,” “Desire,” or “40” to name a few of concert staples...but they were not missed. You have to hand it to U2: they are never afraid to try things, to stretch and even rip the envelope, while simultaneously helping engender community through the bedrock of so many tunes that have become part of our collective consciousness.

U2 has already played to over 2 million people in 28 sold-out stadiums, mostly in Europe. There are a few scattered seats available in some of the remaining 16 shows at stadia across North America on this second leg of the tour. As I mentioned earlier, there are plans for about 85 more world-wide starting in the winter of 2010, with perhaps as many as 40 of those being on this continent. If you get the chance, definitely go. It should go down in history as the biggest tour of all-time as far as attendance, and it will be embedded into your memory banks forever as well.

(44 photos I snapped from the show are featured in my photo profile under "U2 360 Tour")

4:11 AM

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Sunday, August 30, 2009

It's Not the Years, It's the Mileage
Category: Life

Towards the end of the original Indiana Jones movie, Indy and his one-time flame, Marion, have hidden on a frigate steaming across the Mediterranean. In the shabby captain’s quarters her attempts to nurse his wounds are rebuffed as he winces and moans with every ministration. Growing impatient with his protests she laments “You’re not the man I knew ten years ago.” To which he retorts “It’s not the years, honey, it’s the mileage.”

Now that I’m a few ticks past the half century mark, those words seem more apropos with each passing day. Despite trying to eat reasonably well, keep my weight in-check, my heart rate strong, my blood pressure low, and my cholesterol even, it would appear that the wheels are starting to fall off my chassis.

5 months ago I was diagnosed with degenerative discs in my upper and lower spine. And with the nervous system of what William Borroughs coined “the soft machine” all wired through that circuit box, I’m having bouts of pain (both sharp and dull), the tingles, and numbness in many extremities. Sleep can sometimes be strained. And finding comfort in nearly any position can prove difficult.

Recently, as I pondered my sorry state, it dawned on me that it’s really no wonder that the parts to this “rusty old American dream”—as David Wilcox metaphorically named it—are beginning to wear out. For decades I’ve lived by the credo “use it or lose it.” And while I still agree with it in spirit, I’m wondering if practice is another matter.

For instance: My 6’4” frame was never intended to squeeze into ever smaller airline seats and their restrictive “leg room.” That 16 ½” width doesn’t work so well for someone with a 22” shoulder span. And I’m surprised that my knee caps don’t have permanent scar tissue from being rammed by the reclining seat of a usually unsympathetic occupant in front of me. I’m now past the 1,600 count of flights in my lifetime, the majority of which have been in the last 25 years. Close to 100 have been the 8 to 14 hour transoceanic variety, and only twice have I been fortunate enough to sit in the balmy climes of First Class as I have passed through all 24 time zones. I always while away the hours with a good book, or writing, or watching the in-flight cinema fare. And I’m even blessed with the ability to snooze on a plane. But those four thousand or so hours contorted like Houdini while circling the globe to the tune of 40 revolutions have taken their toll.

Then I consider my workout regimen. I’ve been pretty regular about it for 29 years now, with close to 3,000 concerted forays into physical exertion at various YMCA’s, health clubs, and gyms around the world. There has been many an evening where I wonder why I put myself through this as I stare up and a water-stained acoustical tile and a spastic fluorescent bulb while flat on my back between sit-ups or bench-presses. By my estimate over these 3 decades I have pushed 15.6 million pounds on the bench, curled 11.5 million more, lifted my own body weight 110,000 times via push-ups, squeezed my stomach muscles over 450,000 times, and spent 1,150 hours on either a stationary bike or elliptical machine—the equivalent of 48 straight days. Who knows how many additional metric tons I’ve moved via lat pull downs, tricep dips, leg lifts, squats, quad push-outs, French curls, incline presses, shoulder lifts, leg squeezes, glute pinches, forearm flies, knee bends, and leg extension presses. How many hundreds of miles from jogging, power walking, and aerobic repetitions that caused intense shin-splints?

Of course over 20,000 lifts of a 50 pound suitcase in my travels, and over 4,000 hours of lugging around a stout 20 pound briefcase/computer bag have done wonders for my shoulders, too.

Sports have taken their toll as well, I’m sure. In my day, one of the few things I truly excelled at was throwing a ball for speed and distance. A couple of former pro ballplayers told me my arm was “major league.” A quarter of a century of baseball/softball produced at least 300,000 throws, many of them approaching 95 mph, or covering 300 feet. I have a torn right rotator cuff as a result. I’ve probably swung a bat at least 100,000 times vs. live pitching, machines, fungoes, or even hitting rocks to perfect my stroke. At least a dozen times I’ve had dislocated fingers from bad hop grounders. I’ve taken some wicked bounces of baseballs off my shins, ankles, wrists, chest, shoulders, and yes, took a 200 foot throw right square in the nads once that had me laid-out for the better part of a day. My gills still turn green thinking about that one. I also took several on my noggin. I recall once having the distinct baseball stitching pattern bruised into my forehead for 10 days after one such beaning.

I’ve jumped 150,000 times playing upwards of a thousand hours of basketball, with numerous messed up tendons in ankles due to twists and sprains, and a chipped tooth from an errant elbow. Though never scholastically, I played hundreds of hours of pick-up football without pads and rarely with cleats. This led to 4 bouts with water-on-the-knee from hyper-extensions bending that pivot point backwards (it ‘tweren’t pretty), and various other contusions and nasty bruises. Since I was a lousy skater, I would volunteer to play goalie in ice hockey, and took way too many pucks to the body, and a few to my face (which explains a lot). In floor hockey I fell on my right elbow and have bone chips floating around as a result, and had my chin lacerated from someone else’s follow-through on a slap shot that ended up requiring 23 stitches. In another game I broke my left big toe…a decade later the accompanying nail is still discolored from that crushing.

Other sports like track and field, volleyball, bowling, hiking, kickball, snorkeling, swimming, soccer, tetherball, rope courses, tennis, racquetball, badminton, ultimate Frisbee, and handball had their share in the decomposition to my condition.

Then there’s crazy self-inflicted stuff like being thrown from bicycles; falling off a 50 foot cliff at age 3; catapulting off some steps and busting my head open on a Tonka Toy dump truck at age 4 requiring stitches to the forehead; tumbling headlong down a 100 foot gravel path at age 6; piggy-back fights, tree climbing (and falling), rasslin’, rappelling, cliff climbing, and vicious games of Red Rover, Duck Hunter, Dodge Ball, Stunt Man, Crack-the-Whip, Smear the Queer, and Death Match Twister. Being a crazed hockey fan even had its drawbacks in that I carried a large portfolio bag full of cardboard signs, handouts, noisemakers, clipboards, etc. for our silly Cellblock 303 shenanigans at Nashville Predators’ games. The 16 block hike from my parking space to the arena and back over 10 seasons amounted to traversing 6,400 blocks with that 35 pound case slung over my shoulder.

And plain old domestic chores have added to the wear and tear. What tonnage of snow have I shoveled in those 30 years living in the artic blasts of the Midwest? Cutting close to 1,000 lawns have covered how many acres of back and forth with burdensome equipment propelled with my own legs and back? How many thousands of pounds of clippings and leaves have I raked, bagged and dragged? Before powered edge trimmers, how many back breaking hours were spent gripping those blasted grass trimmers making the driveways and sidewalks look snazzy?

Moving, whether myself, or family, or friends has probably occurred at least 30 times. In my own case, the 6,000 record albums I once had were idiotic enough to keep transporting. But then there were numerous times of taking sectional sofas up (or down) 4 flights of stairs, lifting pianos, and heaving under the weight of freezers, console stereos, filing cabinets, washers, office desks, and overstuffed lazy-boy chairs.

Of course, there have been jobs that entailed repetitious movements that may have added to my current plight. Detassling corn, bailing hay, shoveling dung, cleaning chicken coops, and pumping wells took untold hours of exertion on various farms up through my teens. Lifting and flipping scalding hot 32 pound kettles of caramel corn hundreds of times at a popcorn shop took up five afternoons a week during three of my high school years. Mopping floors, cleaning toilets, scrubbing showers, and dumping gorged garbage bins filled many nights as I worked my way through college with Service Master and Wheaton’s Building and Grounds Crew.

Several more years in construction where I shuffled thousands of wheelbarrows of wet cement, gravel, and bricks, as well as carrying 50 pound bags of shingles up ladders to roofs, along with hoisting drywall and cinder blocks most likely added to the decay. Not to mention stripping floors, laying carpet, tile and linoleum, spreading tar, laying myriad brick, hammering ten thousand nails, digging ditches, removing stumps, laying sod, tree trimming, shoveling sand for hours on end, pulling logs, and painting indoors and out. There were 1,000+ hours as a shipping clerk at a CB radio factory where I daily packed and moved skid loads of product in 40 to 100 pound boxes. I’m guessing now that most of these could not have been helpful for my back.

Even the music business can be detrimental to spinal health (as well as many other physical, mental, and even spiritual disciplines). I was never a professional drummer, but thousands of hours pounding away on the skins as an amateur creates a certain level of nerve-wracking push back to the central core. And then helping with load-in/load-out at hundreds of concerts lifting cases, racks, amps, speaker cabinets, cable boxes, taping down cords, and the never ending up and down from trucks and loading docks and crawling in and out of bus bays is lamentable. Trying to sleep for weeks at a time in tour bus bunks that were 4 inches shorter than me and only 30 inches wide and high must’ve added to the woe.

Now don’t get me wrong…I look back fondly on all these experiences. Even the painful ones bring a bit of a smile. And I am extremely grateful that our bodies are built to take such a pounding…indeed that we often grow stronger, more durable, and even resilient from repeated calisthenics that build muscle tone, and trials that engender character. As the psalmist said, we are fearfully and wonderfully made. But in Ecclesiastes it also says that for every thing under heaven there is a season…turn, turn, turn. I can’t help but think that all this mileage has finally caught up with me.

The price gets paid in the silliest ways now: a simple turn in the shower that I have done 15,000 times in my life can now send my back into spasms. Or picking up a sack of groceries, or pulling Dad’s 13 pound walker out of the back seat of my car, or even bending over to pick up branches in my yard can set 10 days of intense mayhem into motion. It’s getting harder and harder to predict when and how the bouts will occur.

I’m doing all I can to combat the regression via stretching, posture, diet, and even some pain medications when needed. I’m still attempting workouts, but the challenge is finding just the right weights and blends of movement that don’t exacerbate the situation further. I truly want to avoid going under the knife, as I have heard too many horror stories, and too few successes for me to think it would turn out differently in my case. And the advice from so many well-meaning friends has been abundant…and often quite contradictory (or at least confusing).

In Raiders of the Lost Ark, when queried about how he was going to head off another daunting scenario, Indiana Jones mumbled “…I don’t know…I’m just making this up as I go along.” Never were more honest words spoken, and my back echoes that refrain.

2:44 PM

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Sunday, August 23, 2009

Supplication and Evaporation
Category: Religion and Philosophy

Flying into Colorado recently, I saw a solitary tuft of cloud hanging about a mile above the arid plains. It couldn’t have been more than 100 feet wide. Having lived in the Rocky Mountain State for 6 years, I realized that over the course of the next several hours, that singular wisp would eventually mutate and grow into a billowing thunderhead that would release a downpour to the thirsty ground in late afternoon.

Meteorologists can explain how the moister rises unseen from the soil and paltry ponds and barely active creek beds. Without detection to the human eye, this cycle is in constant motion. The desire of the parched ground is sent skyward, where it mysteriously gathers, expands, grows in weight, and recharges with ionization. Eventually, it returns to the earth as rain that gives nutrition and sustenance. It often cleans the dusty air, and always brings cooling relief.

The experts can dissect it, analyze it, and claim to understand it—but it is still a wonderful conundrum to me. The surface needs to give up…to evaporate…in order to receive.

So it is with prayer.

The vision-message is a witness
Pointing to what’s coming.
It aches for the coming—it can hardly wait!
And it doesn’t lie.
If it seems slow, wait for it.
It’s on its way. It will come right on time.

Habakkuk 2: 3

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Sunday, August 16, 2009

Brenda Blooming
Category: Life

Last month our mission team from the Village Chapel had just finished 6 days of co-labor with the proud members of Bethel Church in Patzicia, a burgh of around 20,000 mostly-Mayans in the central highlands. Together we helped lay cement and transport brick for another second floor expansion of the Compassion project that helps 221 needy kids, while also helping with crafts, activities, and sporting events for the little ones.

As the week drew to a close, most of the group headed west for zip rides down the jungle hillsides, shopping, and a boat ride across the stunning Lake Atitlan…easily one of the most sumptuous sights in the world. But I and a few others journeyed south to the one-time Spanish capital of all their Central American colonies: Antigua. This picturesque tourist town holds a special place in my memory since it was where I first met Brenda, my little Compassion sponsored girl, all 3 feet 2 inches and 44 pounds of her at age 6. We rendezvoused at a nice hotel that time as well, and it marked the first time she had ever been to a formal eating establishment.

Beyond the porch where we dined there was a little playground that she was eyeing wistfully, so while we awaited dessert, I asked her if she would like to go play. She slipped her little hand in mine and we skipped along the gravel pathway until she split away to start clamoring all over the play set. She had never been on a slide or a swing, so I showed her how they worked, and listened to her uninhibited glee as she soared ever higher with each push, or swooshed down the shiny metal on her long native embroidered skirt.

So, here we were again, 8 years later. In an attempt to show her maturation, Brenda was wearing heels for the first time…not stilettos or anything…but still 3 inches. Even without them, at age 14 she was now taller than her mother. As we walked along the five-centuries-old rough-hewn cobblestone byways of Antigua, she was having some serious challenges getting the pointed heals wedged in the craggy bricks. Heck, even I was having trouble keeping my balance. I asked her if she was doing alright, and she soldiered on with a gritty smile.

When we finally found the rumored carnivore eatery, De Gusto Sacatepequez, we were ushered to the upstairs loft where I nice breeze wafted through the 350 year old interlaced timber rafters as we looked over the buys street below. This is always such a treat for them as they rarely eat in a “sit down restaurant.” In fact, the most recent time had been two years earlier during my last visit.

Looking at her aching feet, I suggested that Brenda take her heals off under the table. She looked for her mother’s approval, and with her permission she gladly did just that. And per her desire, she and her mom both ordered and devoured juicy steaks. I had some delicious seared salmon in a mango glaze, and we all ordered multiple strawberry lemonades.

As we ate, my mind drifted for a moment, recalling another rendezvous 3 years ago at a restaurant by the Lake. There had been an odd tension in the air for the first 15 minutes of our visit, which was not the norm. Finally, Brenda’s mother, Micaela, broke down and began to confess that her husband, Juan, had just left her and their 6 children for a younger woman 4 weeks earlier. This was such a disappointment, since he had seemed to be such a good husband and father in previous visits, always giving tender attention to Brenda, who was the youngest. Often in this culture, it is the smallest child that gets overlooked as opposed to being spoiled.

Micaela sobbed deeply with shame explaining that there must’ve been something very wrong that she did to drive him away. She apparently was unsure if I would continue to sponsor Brenda since their family was now being torn apart, and that she was somehow an unfit wife and mother. I remember pulling her close to me as she shook, and assuring her that there was nothing that she had done wrong…he was the one who had failed by betraying his love for her and shirking his responsibility. How will I ever forget Brenda’s big ebony brown eyes welled with emotion as she saw her mother in such a vulnerable state? Now as a single mom, how was she going to be able to provide when her only marketable skill was weaving…and there simply wasn’t enough time to raise a family and earn enough from her sewings.

Discovering that they were now existing on about $70 a month without Juan’s income (and there are no provisions for alimony in Guatemalan divorce proceedings) I resolved then to help out any additional way I could. Thankfully, Compassion has a plan where you can donate an additional maximum of $25 a month for special family needs, and 100% of that gift goes directly to the needs at hand. Since ’06, that meager add-on has helped Micaela purchase a few mattresses, linens, a 3 eye hot plate electric stove, kitchen implements, clothing, food stuffs, and a shower stall (they used to just use a bucket to pour over their heads each morning). Brenda always sends thank you notes and photos showing what they wisely purchased with the funds.

I snapped back to the present as Brenda began chatting. While we ate, she spoke more than I had ever heard before. She has definitely started becoming more of a young woman, and is confident and eager in sharing her thoughts now, whereas often before she would be fairly subdued in her conversation. Never sullen or withdrawn…just shy and somewhat demur. What a joy to hear so many stories and opinions flowing out of her now. We discussed classes (math is still a strong suit, but she is falling in love with Spanish and writing now), extra curricular activities (basketball has now been supplanted by volleyball), weaving (she is finally at the age and finger dexterity to learn the tricks of the trade from her mother and aunts), favorite bible stories and characters (Christ’s teachings on the mountainside, Ruth, and Joseph all came to mind with plentiful reasons for their import), travel (many questions about the Andes Mountains, Brazil’s rich biology, customs of central Africa, art from Europe, history of Rome, agriculture in the Philippines, etc.).

After our lunch we continued strolling around the historic ruins of cathedrals in Antigua. Brenda reached for my hand as we walked and conversed further about her culture, geography, and budding love of art. I snapped some new photos of us, as well as some simply featuring her against gorgeous backdrops of carved stone and fading pastel paints. Her beauty eclipsed that of her surroundings, however. Everyone who sees the shots agrees wholeheartedly.

When we arrived back at the hotel lobby, I excused myself to scoot quickly to my room to get a bag full of gifts for the family.

Upon my return, Micaela had already laid-out an intricately woven hand bag with fluorescent aqua Guatemalan birds featuring golden eyes embroidered by hand into the midnight blue fabric. It was yet another masterpiece that she had labored many hours to create as her token of appreciation. Previously she made a traditional male head wrap (which I now uses as a runner on my dining room table), a white dress shirt with vibrant trim around the collar and cuffs, a fabulous wall hanging that is now framed over my bed, and an amazing Technicolor jacket. All of these lovingly sewn strand by strand on a home made loom that I saw her demonstrate in the small courtyard of their home 7 years ago.

As always, I was humbled by her generosity and the time that I know she put into the process---which was probably another 20 hours of excruciating concentration and skill expended on my behalf.

I looked with some hesitation—even a tad of shame—towards the bag o’ goodies that had taken my friend Debbie and me an hour to procure at a Target. Don’t get me wrong, I sure appreciated a woman’s sense of what might be apropos for a girl just entering her teens, and Deb was more than glad to oblige in any way she could. But this was stuff that was simply purchased as opposed to being considerately crafted.

So, feeling like a goofus more than I ever had before, I pulled the items out one by one with an explanation of why they were chosen. A heavy duty portable (but very large) umbrella for rainy season, all sorts of hair care products (the women all wear their stunning black hair long), creams, soaps, dental products, towels, a summer dress, undies, socks, sports bras, and of course, a stuffed animal—this time a ridiculous looking ape that was very soft. She gleamed with that one and shared that she has kept every single fluffy critter I’ve given her over the years. I’m guessing she’s like many teenagers around the world whose beds are covered with such things.

As her mother finished packing all the items neatly in an all purpose shroud, Brenda began sharing more earnestly than I have ever heard. Our interpreter, Sarah, was trying to keep up as she spoke passionately.

“I want to thank you again for all that you have meant to me since I was in kindergarten, Mark. You have always been so considerate with your letters; all the postcards you have sent that have helped broaden my view of the world, and the excitement of your many visits. And you’ll never know how much your extra financial gifts have meant to our family. I don’t know where we would be today without that generosity. There are many times that I will lay awake at night and wonder why it is that you are so kind towards me…why you show so much love to us.”

I sat for a moment. Knowing her love of math, I answered her question with one of my own. “I remember once when we were visiting you showed me all kinds of arithmetic problems that required fractions. And as you’ve gotten older, I know you have gotten good use out of the calculator I gave you a few years ago. That device is really helpful with division and percentages, isn’t it?”

She nodded yes to both questions.

“Every mathematician and scientist agrees that there is no end to this universe…that it goes on and on and on forever, just as certain questions like the square root of pi has no final ending point,” I continued. “Since God is infinite, and we are assured from scripture that His love for us also knows no bounds, and then wouldn’t it be safe to say that His love is so big, so enormous, and so never-ending that it would that there would be no way of dividing it up?”

Brenda’s eyes were wide and her head tilted at just the slightest of angles wondering where I was going with all this. Again she grinned slightly as if to answer in the affirmative.

“So, if His is love is incalculable, wouldn’t it be true then that there are no gradations of infinity? And it follows that if that’s true, then there is nothing—not one single thing or a whole bunch of things—that I can do that will make God love me more or that will make Him love me less. And that goes for your mom, your brothers, your sisters, your class mates…and you, too.”

She smiled wider as she began to see where I was headed.

“I believe God’s love for me and you is so wide that it can’t be contained, and He fills me up fresh every day with that love when I ask Him to. I think that’s why I care for you, your mom, and your family, Brenda. It’s nothing that comes from me, but rather His boundless supply. And there’s nothing that you can do to earn that perfect, infinite love of God…it comes from His deep good pleasure for those whom He created.”

After Sarah translated those final words, Brenda looked me square in the eyes for at least 10 seconds without saying anything and with no perceptible movement other than the breath through her nostrils.

She stood up and said “One thing I do know is that you have become like a new father to me. In fact, I believe you are better to me than my father ever was.” She then sat next to me on the couch and leaned into my side, wrapping both of her hands around my right arm, and sighed deeply.

The lump that was forming in my throat was about the size of Rhode Island. Through misty eyes I looked over at Micaela…and she gestured her acquiescence with tears as well.

“Our Father in heaven is very fond of us both,” I whispered as I accepted her embrace, and patted her head gently with my other hand. “Aren’t you glad for that?”

“Si” she contentedly breathed.

Who knows how much time passed—I think we would’ve been fine with it stopping forever. But they needed to catch a three hour bus ride back to Nahuala before it got too late.

Guatemala is known as the Land of Eternal Spring for its never-ending harvest cycles, and ceaseless flowering. To see my beautiful Brenda continue blooming into the woman that God has intended is one of the greatest joys of my journey. May she flourish and brighten the garden of her family and beyond for many years to come.

Currently listening:
Slice O Life: Bruce Cockburn Live Solo
By Bruce Cockburn
Release date: 2009-03-31

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