In my little town…

Today, I ran into three former students, in three different cities.  All three were music majors once upon a time, and all three have very different jobs in different cities.  I almost ran into a former college classmate, but just missed him by a few seconds.  Interestingly enough, I almost ran into his daughter in a parking lot.  She didn’t see me, but she was singing an embarrassing song about something embarrassing.  I am pretty sure it was not about her shoes, which would make a Puerto Rican hooker proud.

I am so proud of each one of my former students, and for the outstanding men they have become.  I’m also pretty impressed with those shoes my friend’s daughter was wearing, but that’s another story.

Yes, there are a bunch of band directors out there that were once in my classes, and I count each and every one of them as important cogs in my ever-turning life.  You guys–thanks for not making me look as stupid (as I have often felt when delivering the closest I could come to wisdom and behavior modification and “in the real world, my friends” sort of advice that I thought might be useful and/or important to you someday when you eventually might become a teacher and molder of young musical minds).  You are doing a great job with your students, and that is the point.  Please, always remember what I sometimes forgot:  those are PEOPLE on the other side of the podium, and should be treated as such.

While I am not a fan of State Marching Contest in Texas (or any other place), I am immensely proud that many of you guys have garnered enough notoriety and admiration from your peer adjudicators to have been very successful at these events.  And while UIL competition is not on the list of things in which I ever wish to participate or encourage anyone else to endure, it makes my over-worked heart glad to see that you and your students have engaged and competed and come out the other end as being recognized as not sucking in any way–or at least sucking a lot less than the other bands before and after you…

Still, I often think of the students, music major and non-major alike, who are attorneys and doctors and store managers and police officers and military personnel and ICU nurses and lawnmower pushers and kindergarten teachers and ministers and parents and councilmen and mayors and judges and principals and insurance salesmen and financial managers and university directors and journalists and auto mechanics and electricians and plumbers and cabinet makers and house builders and secretaries and housewives and househusbands and chiropractors and lumberyard owners and McDonald’s managers and Montanas managers and factory workers and so on and so on and so on…..

Because you guys were always the heart and soul of The Sound and the Fury, and you were always the people who showed up.

One thing I have learned since retiring, and enduring the death of my mother and my brother is that 95% of life is showing up.  You guys showed up.

Meanwhile, Thomas, and Michael and Michael–it was great to see you guys today.  Thanks for the free coffee, the conversation, the fellowship, the sopapilla cheesecake, and for showing up.

Once a year they come and go…

I am not alone in my enjoyment of the bounty of spring known as wildflowers.

 

Mostly, in Texas when we talk about wildflowers, what we really mean is Bluebonnets. Thanks Lady Bird. You did some good work there. Not sure how you threw all them seeds out all over the FM’s and RR’s and what-have-you-roads, but this time of year in Texas, you can’t hardly throw a dead cat without landing in a bunch of wildflowers.

 

And by that I really mean Bluebonnets.

 

Indian Paintbrush is a perfectly good flower along the road, in a field, or even in your front yard, as long as you take care to plant Bluebonnets nearby.

 

Lots of bird poop went into the blooming of Texas, and I am not talking about the Governor here. He is not bird poop. His stature is lower down the poop chain, somewhere around “eaten by a coyote and pooped off a cliff into a sick baby’s old diaper that is full of habanero seed-induced vomit from an illegal alien from Oklahoma” kind of poop.

 

But I digress.

 

Them fields, they sho’ am purdy.  The medians along every highway explode with color.  It is a wonder to gaze upon the blue-purple hues amidst the verdant greens and yellows of whatever that plant is that resembles a flower today but by June will be a noxious weed. Reds and oranges and white (oh, my!) cover the caliche hills and cedar overpasses and misty valleys and laden tanks and….well, you get the idea.

 

We gots us a lots of wildflowers in Texas right now. And what I really mean is Bluebonnets.

 

This is the only place on earth Bluebonnets grow,

Once a year they come and go at this old house here by the road.

 

Such a great lyric from Nanci Griffith, who is the Poet Laureate of my house.

 

My mother loved the wildflowers, and I like them a little more each year.  Growing up in Florida and Tennessee as I did, I used to scoff at the mention of Texas Wildflowers–and by that I mean Bluebonnets. Tennessee and Florida might be the two most spectacular places in the US to enjoy flora.  But three-plus decades amongst the Lone Star faithful has given me a deep appreciation for the array of beauty that springs from hard-scrabble desert.

 

They toil not, and neither do they spin.

Diggin’ in the deep…

Eldest heir to the fortune stopped by yesterday with a trailer full of plants and trees and grasses, oh my! Unlike the lilies of the field, we spent the rest of the day toiling on (and spinning as well, I suppose).

As with all Hooper projects, we ran into difficulty, but were not deterred. Rock and caliche are no slight obstacles to overcome, and yet we reigned victoriously. Inconveniently packed calcium carbonate in the most desirable planting location was no match for two Hoopers and a fairly new and very stout iron rock bar.

One day later, and it’s all over except for about 28% of it…

Another Japanese maple in Zen garden and a few assorted knockout roses, and we’ll be done. Plus putting down some mulch. And the big native copper-colored boulder I need to find. And planting the lavender. And burying some electric cable. And moving the 50-gallon pot to the back yard –not what you are thinking–it’s a really big terracotta pot with some cactus in it…

So you see, we have come so far from where we began, and in many areas, but not all, we are complete.  Except for all that other stuff.

And that is exactly what God says about me…

Propinquity

As I remember it, it started at a party at Lisa Tench’s house in 6th grade.  Or maybe 7th.

Lisa was a very nice girl–the kind of girl that you didn’t mind sitting next to in class, or eating lunch with in the cafeteria, or getting stuck with eraser duty at South Ward Elementary School.  She had lots of friends, and as a result, often had some fun little parties at her house.  I have little recollection of her beyond that.  Well, there was the typical yet sadly cruel nickname that was the result of the of 6th grade mind:  Lisa Stench.  Now, in no way did Lisa have a distinctly different odor about her, or at least not as far as I could tell.  It just rhymed.  If our 12-year old vocabulary had been more extensive, her nickname might have just as easily been Leaning Tower of Lisa, or Lisa If You Can Dodge A Wrench, or Lisa Pinch a Loaf, or Lisa Wench.  Nope.  None of those would do.  Lisa Stench it was.

Her house was one of those majestic old Florida homes in the Harbor Oaks area of town, just off Druid Street, where Spanish moss hung like so many eerie blankets of death from towering oak trees.  Most of the inhabitants of Harbor Oaks were successful professionals:  doctors, attorneys, swanky restaurant owners, and such.  I have no idea what Lisa’s parents did for their money, or if they inherited it, or whatever.  I just knew she had a cool old house–the kind with a butler buzzer under the rug in the dining room, and hidden doors and passageways all over the three story house with a detached carriage house for a garage.

I do not know what ever became Lisa.  I remember being around her a little in high school, and that she was very smart, and had really long hair and dressed really groovy in tall suede boots with fringe and all the other haute couture of the post-hippie early 1970′s.  My guess is that she turned out just fine, and has had a happy and fulfilled life.  That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Across the street, or at least very nearby was another friend, Charles Castagna.  Yes, I had a friend named Charlie Brown.  Charles was another nice kid, who ran against me for Student Council president or something like that.  I think I beat him.  Or maybe he won the next year.  I have no idea what happened to him, either.  He did NOT dress in groovy threads.  Rather, he looked more like someone who might run Newt Gingrich’s college student government campaign.  Still, Charles was a nice guy.  Not Charlie, not Chuck–always Charles.

There was one particularly fun party at Lisa’s house.  We spent most of the night listening to The Monkees’ new album.  Lisa was an uber-fan, and had all three at that point–I think she was the first person in the Golden Suncoast of Florida to have all three of those albums in her possession.  We listened to them back to back to back and then again.  The desgnated intent of the party was to listen to The Monkees all night, or until 10:30, whichever came first, and to eat M&M cookies and popcorn balls until they were gone, drink Nugrape until it tasted good, and share a cigarette or two until we coughed up our left lungs.  Lurking in the agenda was dancing.

I did not dance.  I still don’t.  It was not, nor has it ever been a religious objection (“if you dance, you’ll get pregnant and go to hell!”), nor even a coordination issue–I was a stellar pre-teen athlete with days, maybe even weeks of prime sporting days ahead of me in the next couple of months of Little League until it all dissipated or at least went into hibernation until  Intramural Sports in college, where I came in 3rd Place in the Softball Throw.  No, the issue was one of not having a clue how to dance.  I tried.  I went to Sock Hops. I went to Student Council dances. I went to every opportunity to dance that I could.  I wanted to dance with the pretty girls and pretend we were in love for 2:48, or until the song stopped.  But since I started school a year early, I was a year younger than everyone else around me.  Plus, I simply was not able to pull it off without succumbing to the painful adolescent self-destruction due to being uncomfortable in my own body, rendering me grooveless and not at all footloose…

In an ironic twist of fate, I was nominated for “Best Dancer” in my junior high superlative.  How I wanted to be “Most Talented” or “Wittiest” or “Most Likely To Own A House As Cool As Lisa Tench’s House In Harbor Oaks! ” But it was not to be. Sadly, I came in third out of three for “Best Dancer.”

But I digress…

So, there I sat at Lisa Tench’s house, not dancing.  I took on the task of turning the record over and placing the needle on the correct groove when it needed to be done (I have always had the heart of a servant).  When asked to dance, I mumbled something about how I was going to be a musician, so I would never be a dancer, but rather the rock star on stage playing for dancers, so blah blah blah, I would take care of the music while staring unabashed at my friends while they danced.

Now, mind you, I was a trombone prodigy who peaked musically at the age of 14 when I made the Florida Junior High All-State Band.  For that honor, I got to spend a weekend in Daytona Beach eating Big Macs (they cost 50 cents back then) staying up all night a hotel room with three guys who became my very good friends over the next few years, and I had some rather awkward encounters on the beach with two girls from Eau Gallie, but that is another blog altogether.  It was also not at all what you are thinking right now.  Sure, I was ninth chair in the All-State Band, but it was rigged.  It’s so political, that All-State Band audition process…

And the point of this treatise I give thee, O Theophilus?  A point? Are you kidding me?  This is just me rambling on about a memorable night long ago, filled with music from The Monkees, or as I like to call them, the Hanson of My Youth.  I miss the innocence and memory of the music from Davy Jones, Mike Nesmith, Mickey Dolenz, and yes, even Peter Tork.  Michael Nesmith is still one of my heroes, a fine lyricist, a decent human, and an early pioneer of music videos with his show Elephant Parts.  Never mind the ubiquitous stocking cap.  Nesmith was cool.

“I have no more than I did before, but now I have all that I need.”

“Of the smile that covers teardrops, the way your head yields to your heart.”

Those are some fine lyrics that have stuck with me since that night long ago in Lisa Tench’s house in Harbor Oaks.  I hope you had a night like that sometime in your life.

Peace, Davy.  And thanks for all the groovy tambourine work.

snow, snow, snow, snow…

Flakes are floating past the windows up here on the hill. It’s nothing spectacular, but it occurs infrequently enough that it calls to mind earlier days of snowfall.

My earliest memories of snow were in Tennessee in the 1950′s, and up on another perfect hill out on Granny White Pike. Strangely sadistic boots with metal straps that connected in such a manner as to cut off all circulation to my feet, which of course, is exactly what you want in snow: dealing with tiny metal parts and enjoying the lack of blood-flow to your feet.

We had a couple of sleds, and we rode those as if they were fun…and safe, which they were not. Living on the side of a hill (between Eddy Arnold and the meanest woman who ever breathed my oxygen), we had a diminutive sled track in the back yard, that while short, was quite steep, and ramped the mph up to at least 7 or 8. The front yard seemed like a vast tundra of sled heaven full of goodness and joy, but alas, while large and plentiful, lacked the required angle of descent, and like the awful greens at Legends Country Club in Stephenville, would register a 2.7 on the Stimpmeter. It also had some big trees, so that was bad.

I distinctly remember a story in Hooper family lore of my brother Larry sledding down the hill in the backyard directly into the pole that supported the overhang for the back porch, knocking said pole to the ground, much to the delight of his younger brother. That would be me. The overhang stood firm. My guess is that the wise man built that house upon the rock.

There were also snowy days at the cousins’ back yard building snow forts…not as much fun. It seems that while I would labor ever-so-poorly at building the fort, the older siblings and cousins would pound me with snowballs for the duration of construction.

Fast forward to college in Abilene, well-known for the bounty of snowfall in West Texas. I was informed by my friends born north of the Mason-Dixon line upon the first snowfall that no one, absolutely no one, born in Texas knows how to drive in snow. No one. Not one. I learned to drive in Florida, so I kept quiet. My girlfriend (yes, you may pity her) was from Odessa, Texas, and was not proficient at winter driving. She really wasn’t all that proficient at summer driving, either. That was not the reason we broke up. We broke up not only because I was an idiot (still am), but because she was not the girl I could not live without.

But I digress…

My piano accompanist was from New York. She was a great accompanist, and a perfectly safe driver. We were pretty good friends, and I rode with her whenever possible. I have no idea where she is these days.

Ten years after, my sons were sometimes found scrounging the band hall for old bass drums heads. These Brobdingnagian discs of Kevlar were great for sliding down Charlotte Hill (the street in front of our house), provided the layer of ice was sufficient to keep a few millimeters between the asphalt and their Oshkosh-B-Goshes.

We don’t really have much snow in these here parts–we rather prefer our annual cascade of ice (see also, “Jerry Jones’ Greatest Super Bowl Fear”). So, you Yankee-boys who mock us for our driving skills had best give it a whirl on 1/4″ of God-fearing Texas ice before you get too smug while using all of our Texas-bred heating oil that Rick Perry created.

It just stopped snowing outside.

Spring is officially here.

…………

It started snowing again.  Not so fast there, Mr. Spring.

Short, for a change…

It’s been a while.  Maybe too long.  Maybe not long enough.

I have, with some purpose and restraint, not posted in a while.  The reasons are uncommonly selfless and obtuse.  My friends Billy and Kathy are going through a very trying time, with Kathy placing Billy in a 24-hour care facility due to his every-increasing battle with Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease.  Concurrently, some old friends, John and Judy Grasham, are struggling with his cancer issues. Meanwhile, former student James Prater is fighting for his life against the insidious Leukemia.  Another former student, Eric Lang, passed away just a few weeks ago.  Last, and certainly not least, my dear old friend and college roommate, Randy Clinton, is battling his own battle with cancer.   There are more, but this will suffice for now, for surely you get the point.

These are the times that try men’s souls.

Thank you, Mr. Paine.

Gotta hate calling cancer an “issue.”  Seems too distancing, and inconspicuous,  this “issue” issue…

They are all younger than I am (except Randy–he will always be way older than me).  Of course, most of the planet is now younger than I am, so the odds are what they are.

Solomon was a wise man.  “Nothing new under the sun,” and all that.  Mostly, however, the piquant “Vanity, all is vanity” resonates every day.  Now, ain’t that the truth!

Certainly, there is no place in Holy Writ that prescribes a healthy dose of caring for oneself above those around us.  Yes, the ever-popular “God helps those who help themselves” sounds good enough, but it is not to be found in the B-I-B-L-E (yes, that’s the book for me…).  As memory serves me, and it serves me a bit less every year, our dear Benjamin Franklin coined the phrase.  Not God-breathed and inspired of heaven, but still a pretty good source compared to most sources these days.

Take a minute, and help someone else today, or maybe even tomorrow.  Mission trips to “Forn Parts” are fine and dandy, and to be undertaken expeditiously with great care and fervor, and in an admirable way.  Organized local assistance to those in need is equally a worthy cause, and should likewise be pursued with the fire of passion and speed as those who are alive might die tomorrow, for they surely will.

But there is someone on our block and your block that needs something, and needs it now, or maybe even tomorrow.  Easy for me to say–there is only one other person on my block, and there are several of us up on the hill who check in with her.

Maybe I need to look no further than my trombone students and their families, or the kids at Granbury High School that I taught the last couple of days while their directors were learning (?) valuable information at TMEA, or the really tired check-out lady at David’s Grocery down the street, or the really efficient and hard-working girl in the drive-thru window at Nizza Pizza tonight (excellent pizza, by the way–thanks).

“Do you not say, ‘four months more and then the harvest’? I tell you, open your eyes and look at the fields! They are ripe for harvest…”

These are the words of Jesus, found in John 4:35.

Open your (my) eyes.  Let’s go harvest.  If you can’t get up the nerve or strength to harvest, then at least plant something.

Peace, and don’t forget to vote for NOT Rick Perry…oh, yeah, we don’t have to worry about that for four more years…

Happy New Year, more or less…

Happy New Year!  Or as  Joe Wayne would say, Happy New Year Of Our Lord Jesus Christ 2012…

This has been surreal, as many of my more recent blogs have been, although I freely admit that I have not written many recent blogs–good news for you.

This is my third New Year’s celebration in London England.  Surreal.  This is also one of the few NYEve celebrations I have spent with the missus–such is the life of the gigging musician.  Side note;  the demise of the jazz gig has arrived in America.  Shame on us all for allowing DJ’s to take the place of live jazz at NYEve.  I fear I might never play a Fake Book NYEve gig again in my lifetime.

But I digress…

NYEve with some new friends from CA, TN, GA, Brooklyn, plus Churchill’s great-grandson, and Lord Mayor of Westminster, and the whatever-Lord-Something-Of-Something-Something-London, and a few people I have yet to meet after three days was sort of fun.  Beverly, from Lincolnshire, may be our new best friend.  Not a band person(good for her!), but a date for Johnny, lo these many five months.  Still, she was so refreshingly honest and transparent:  “Honestly, bedsheets for my birthday?  What was he thinking?”  This is a nice woman.  And she called us a “lovely couple.”  And she sells Hondas for a living.  What’s not to like?

Other than Beverly, what was good about tonight?  Lots.  The food at Olivo Restaurant near Vicoria Station (http://www.olivorestaurants.com) was really exceptional.  Thanks, Bob for the selections all around.  Dinner at our six-top with people from London, Lincolnshire, and Knoxville was weird, but perfect.

But here is the killer:  the chef came out and sang Puccini.  And sang it REALLY well.  Then the owner sang some more Puccini, again really well.  One would think that a few songs from ABBA at this point would be cheesy, but it was somehow appropriate.  People dancing (not us) and singing (half of us) and having fun (both of us)–it was quite the celebration.  We tried to get Beverly to dance on the table, but she has far too much class.  Still…

Well, it got even better:  Nessun Dorma from the waitress and manager.  Eddie Nerio, your version with the Tarleton Wind Ensemble is still my favorite, but these two were fabulous!  And fabulous is not quite right.  They were BTTW.

I cried.  Just a little, but I am confident enough in my manhood to freely admit that moisture did appear near the ocular orbs.

There are not enough books in the world to contain all the events that transpired this evening in my little borrowed corner of the world.  Tomorrow will bring forth my favorite parade.  In fact,the only parade I like.  Macy’s parade is a pretender to the throne of good parades, for the King of all parades is in London every year on 1Jan.   Rose Bowl?  Ain’t no thang.  The St. Patty’s parade in Dublin is second place, in case you were wondering, and I am blessed for having marched in both of them.  By the way, the Gasparilla Parade in Tampa is okay, but a distant 3rd place to London.  There is a 60% chance of rain on the morrow, which in London means 85% assurance of downpour.  In north central Texas a 60% chance of rain means someone in Pantego or Roanoke or Peaster might get a sprinkle, while my house is 100% dry.  Not so much here in the UK.  I will see a few friends march (GO YOTES!), and observe many wondrous things before my very eyes–no doubt, lots of music undetectable to the human ear and unintelligible to the human yet (got that, G-Ball?).

Earlier today I heard a high school string orchestra perform a medley of Duke Ellington tunes.  Talk about surreal.

As my old and dear friend Bob said, wishes for peace and happiness and maybe a little wealth to all of you in the new year to come.  Best wishes for the new year as it approaches in the Colonies, and peace to all of us.  And God bless our boys at sea.

May the light of Christ shine deeply upon your hearts, and bring blessings upon your family, and upon your enemies as well.

And don’t forget to vote.

Turkey Lurkey

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.  It is better than Christmas, birthdays, ANZAC Day, and about six or seven others all glued together.

Thanksgiving is inexpensive, relaxing, thought-provoking, entertaining, and full of family, food and fun.

Thanksgiving food is better than Christmas food.  Turkey in two or three different varieties, dressing so dry you could choke on it, and pies for days.  Leftovers are even better than the initial feast.  God bless microwaves!

There are no Thanksgiving presents, and that may be the secondary blessing found in this late-November pause from hectic brouhaha.  Christmas presents are something I have grown to loathe in most cases.  Maybe it’s all that plastic crap I bought all those years ago.

More likely, it is the annual signal that the semester is almost over, that the weather is finally changing after six weeks of jacking around with my allergies, that high school football is either over or getting down to pecan-cutting, that Christmas music will now be allowed upon the ears, that Santa better get crackin’, that soup and chili eating season has arrived, that Blue Bell Peppermint ice cream is back in town, that holiday gigs are starting to roll in, and that family will be together a couple of times within the next month.

It will be a little different this year–maybe a lot different. We  lost my mother to Alzheimer’s last December, and my brother to cancer in October.  But we gained Norah Penelope Hooper in February, and we will get to play with her (and her big sister Olivia) at Christmas this year (they are bringing their parents with them, too).  While I will sorely miss Larry’s unusual Christmas gifts, and my mother’s ever-present smile, and the thousands of other things we remember about them, it will be the little gatherings around the dinner tables and reading in the living rooms and going to movies at the Largo 8 on Ulmerton and remembering those little unique family tales together that I will miss the most.

We need a little Thanksgiving this year, and we will have it.  Aunt Sandi is in town for a week; Zack and Emmy are coming over for Turkey Lurkey Dinner, Debra is working all sorts of magic in the kitchen, and I am lighting fires in the fireplace as fast as I can chop and cut wood.  Here in North Central Texas, we have the added benefit of pretty perfect golf weather, and I get to play with a few friends this week.  More enjoyable yet was hitting the range with Zack this afternoon.

Count your many blessings, name them one by one by one by one by one.  It’s a wonderful life…

Peace, and don’t forget to be nice to someone today.

fiddling while rome burns…

The doctors claim that music is largely responsible for assisting Gaby Giffords in her remarkable return in the direction of a full recovery.

This is nothing new.  Music has saved me from numerous crash and burn scenarios in the past, and I expect it will do so numerous times in the future. I can count on three thousand hands the number of people for whom music made all the difference.  Nothing else short of the incredible sacrifice found on the cross has made a bigger impact on humanity.

Still, it is so encouraging for the medical community to not only recognize the power of music, but to clearly stand up and proclaim that music made ALL the difference.

Maybe public school districts will get a clue.  Maybe Congress will listen to a little Zappa and Stravinsky and Dylan and Lennon and Simon and maybe even Gesualdo and do something right for this country in which I live.  Maybe the brilliant counterpoint of Sousa and Mennin and Mozart and Bach and Vivaldi and some composer not yet published will cause them to set aside ridiculous partisan semantics and find a legitimate compromise.  Maybe the melodies of Gershwin and Brahms and Copland and Tiomkin and Steiner and Gram Parsons even Kevin Saunders Hayes will find their way into the collective of political manuevering in the dark and light and render decisions both bold and beneficial.  Could the Gran Partita and L’Histoire and The Planets and a Ring Cycle (here and there) seasoned with Newman and Bryant and Bonney and Whitacre and Bartok and Winehouse and The Byrds and TRIO and Varese and Coltrane and Miles and Wooten and Fleck and Scruggs and Monroe and Williams and Bernstein and Wilco make a difference to the dunderheads that make decisions in the Big House, in Washington, in Greece, in Iran, in the city council, and even inside your house?  Is there a song out there that could cure the ills of the pathetic GOP candidates, or get the current Obama administration to pass the dreams and promises the majority of Americans voted for?

No, that’s too much for even music.

Still…

Peace, and remember that we will win.

Neither Catholic, Nor Protestant, Nor Jew…

Seriously, this was the title of a tract found in most church of Christ buildings when I was growing up.  It is still found in some today:  at least in those 6-7 buildings that still have tracts in their tract rack in the foyer/vestibule.  You will find it right next to the tract about heavy petting and just below the milkman that missed the rapture.  That one with the milkman used to scare the tinkle out of me, and I am sure that was precisely the reason it was printed.  The heavy petting thing confused me–I knew about petting dogs, but couldn’t figure out why I would pet a girl on the forehead.  Tried it once–I don’t recommend it to anyone.  It’s really pretty strange that the milkman tract would be there, too, since the old school CofC was not all that much into things like rapture, but it was quite much into fear, so I guess it’s okay.  But just this once…

To be clear, I’m not bashing my church of Christ heritage in the least.  I cherish that heritage, and claim it every day.  I still find truth and security in the Campbellite preaching, teaching, singing, way of life, and so on.  And like nearly everyone else my age, except for a couple of old ACU roommates, I have found some truths in other sects and cults as well.  But I will admit, no spot is so dear to my childhood as that little red brick Church of Christ in the vale.

I have found myself playing trombone or bass, and even bass trombone in various denominational venues:  Lutheran, Baptist, Methodist, Episcopalian, and a few bizzaro-non-denominational-yet-somehow-pretty-Baptist-feeling synagogaries (new word).  It has never felt odd.  It sometimes felt out of tune and inundated with mediocre two-part singing, but not odd.

One day I was leading singing at a church of Christ, then singing in the praise team at a different church of Christ, then soon I was leading Contemporary Worship at a United Methodist church (they found humor with the Church of Christ boy playing guitar), finally attending an instrumental church of Christ (yes, Virginia, they do exist, and the Lord adds to their number daily).  Fast forward three weeks, and I find myself playing bass as the local Methodist church on Sunday mornings.

In support of the folks at my new church home, it feels nothing like a Methodist church at 9:45.  To be sure, at 8:15 and 11:00, it is VERY Methodist.  If it was that Methodist-feeling at 9:45, it would be so without me.

Recent topics:  grace, Holy Spirit, evangelism, saving the lost, following Jesus, firm foundations, repentance, and the divinity of  scripture.  It feels a whole bunch like a progressive church of Christ, only without weekly communion and adding the instruments.  Good stuff going on here…

When I was hired to lead Contemporary Worship (absolutely the DUMBEST title ever assigned to a particular style of worship), I made it clear that I was not a Methodist, nor did I intend to become a Methodist.  I was a Christian and a Christian only, as Barton W. Stone, Alexander Campbell and a bunch of other reformed-Presbyterians made clear long ago.   Much to my surprise, they said “Okay, just lead the worship.  And there is no budget. And we don’t have any equipment.  And we don’t have a band.  And no one sings. And your gig is at 8:15 am.”  It was all good.  I was on the golf course by 10:15…

My heritage is intact.  The faith of my fathers is in place.  I get to play bass and use the musical gifts God bestowed upon me in a sacrifice of praise that is pleasing in His sight.

I am neither Catholic, nor Protestant, nor Jew.  Well, I’m sort of Jewish, because I follow One…