Last week, one of the saddest stories ever witnessed in US pop culture came to a close. Though I would never consider myself a Michael Jackson fan, the breadth of his influence as an entertainer cannot be denied - even in the small east Texas town where I grew up. During the 70's and 80's, his music was everywhere. One would be hard pressed to find someone who doesn't know the name Michael Jackson, much less anyone who never heard his music.
Yet, in spite of the influence and celebrity, as well as his immense talent, we've seen his personal life spiral out of control and become a media spectacle in recent years. His life seemed to be unraveling before our eyes. Lawsuits, bizarre behavior, accusations, rumors of drug abuse became a regular part of the man's life and overshadowed his incredible talent. Considering how his life had been geared for the spotlight since childhood, and that his private life had become such public event, it is little wonder that his demise happened just in time for the evening news. However, I find it odd that the same reporters who referred to Jackson as "Jacko" during the child molestation trial in 2005 and in the time since, now simply refer to him today as "Michael" in reverent tones. I guess in his death, it is more fitting to allow such a tortured soul that bit of mercy.
I get most of my news from the headlines that appear on the Drudge Report (flame away all of you Drudge haters!) and in the days since there have been a lot of articles appearing there about Michael Jackson. A lot of them have been nothing but fluff, talking about how much pain he was in, how talented he was, how he never got to be a normal child, on and on. I would be the last person qualified to analyze the life Michael Jackson lived. But, one article appeared on Drudge that caught my attention. Rabbi Shmuley Boteach spent a good deal of time since the 2005 molestaton trial counseling Michael Jackson and became one of his close friends. In an unguarded moment, he once said the following to the rabbi:
"I am going to say something I have never said before and this is the truth. I have no reason to lie to you and God knows I am telling the truth. I think all my success and fame, and I have wanted it, I have wanted it because I wanted to be loved. That's all. That's the real truth. I wanted people to love me, truly love me, because I never really felt loved. I said I know I have an ability. Maybe if I sharpened my craft, maybe people will love me more. I just wanted to be loved because I think it is very important to be loved and to tell people that you love them and to look in their eyes and say it."
At the bottom of everything that has been so weird, sad, frightening, angering about what we all have seen of this man's life, that statement is most telling. Regardless of what was done to him or what he did to others, ultimately one of life's deepest longings went unfulfilled in his life from an early age. As he matured, he merely sought to fill the void with the fame and fortune that came all to easy to him. I don't know when it happened, but at some point he realized that he couldn't make enough money to quiet the longing within him for love. That need cried out in him and no avenue was unwasted pursuing a remedy that he would never find.
Meat Loaf's Grammy Award winning song "I would do anything for love, but I won't do that" comes to mind. Many dispise him. Many others laugh and crack jokes. I can't find the strength to do either. We look at Michael Jackson and see the tragedy: a man did everything he could to find love on this earth only to find all those things - including the more despicable things - could not fill the void. In fact, he became what many would refer to as a "monster" before the end.
The truth is, in spite of all the fame, fortune and all that such a lifestyle could afford, the self-professed "King of Pop" wasn't so different from us at all.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Wrecked...
When I see the word "wrecked," it brings a lot of things to mind. With Mom's accident recently, it's come to describe what happened to her in a moment of vulnerability. Sometimes it also means having a little too much to drink and having things get out of hand. My friend, Andrew Fortune, liked to use the term to describe what happened when he would strongly sense God's presence at a certain time. It just so happened that I had the experienced of getting "wrecked" a few weeks ago during the Vineyard Leadership Conference in Galveston. I cried like a baby throughout the conference and left there wondering "what now?"
Then a few weeks ago, I read this blog by Crispin Schroeder. Crispin is a musician on staff at the Vineyard Church in Kenner, Louisiana. He recently made it known that he and his family would be planting a church in the Covington/Mandeville area in the same state.
I have to admit that I get a little envious of church planters nowadays when they make this sort of announcement. The experts say it's easier to manage planting a church when a couple's children are small or grown. Teen and pre-teen children seem to have more difficulty with the process of relocating and acclimating to the new way of life. But, when our children were small, we couldn't seem get our act together long enough to get the blessing to proceed. As our family has grown, it's often seemed like little more than a pipe dream. "Life comes at you fast," the commercial says, and we've just found ourselves and our children getting older. The dream of planting a church is still there, but it's like something placed on a shelf, gathering dust.
Reading Crispin's blog coincided with the "wrecked" experience for me. Though he didn't use the word "wrecked," I got exactly what he meant. The world needs to see people who've been wrecked by the love of God.
It may not mean much at all and may never come to anything, but last night something happened to me in a Wal Mart parking lot. In the middle of making plans to move my parents away from the first place I ever called "home," the place called back - or maybe it was God calling back. I really don't know which. Originally, when I thought of planting a church, I felt that the church to be planted would be in a wild and raucous place: Gun Barrel City, Texas. To drive through the area, it would seem the last thing the city needs is another church. But, I'm sure they could use one that Crispin describes - made up of people who have been "wrecked" by the love of God for people who need him most.
So, while driving down the main drag, I felt the heart of God for a part of the world that is as dear to me as my own life. They need to meet people who've been wrecked by God's love. My prayer was, and will be, "God, send someone, who's been wrecked by your love, to this place. And, if no one else will go, then send me." Some day. One day. Whenever.
Yeah, I'm wrecked, but it's OK.
Then a few weeks ago, I read this blog by Crispin Schroeder. Crispin is a musician on staff at the Vineyard Church in Kenner, Louisiana. He recently made it known that he and his family would be planting a church in the Covington/Mandeville area in the same state.
I have to admit that I get a little envious of church planters nowadays when they make this sort of announcement. The experts say it's easier to manage planting a church when a couple's children are small or grown. Teen and pre-teen children seem to have more difficulty with the process of relocating and acclimating to the new way of life. But, when our children were small, we couldn't seem get our act together long enough to get the blessing to proceed. As our family has grown, it's often seemed like little more than a pipe dream. "Life comes at you fast," the commercial says, and we've just found ourselves and our children getting older. The dream of planting a church is still there, but it's like something placed on a shelf, gathering dust.
Reading Crispin's blog coincided with the "wrecked" experience for me. Though he didn't use the word "wrecked," I got exactly what he meant. The world needs to see people who've been wrecked by the love of God.
It may not mean much at all and may never come to anything, but last night something happened to me in a Wal Mart parking lot. In the middle of making plans to move my parents away from the first place I ever called "home," the place called back - or maybe it was God calling back. I really don't know which. Originally, when I thought of planting a church, I felt that the church to be planted would be in a wild and raucous place: Gun Barrel City, Texas. To drive through the area, it would seem the last thing the city needs is another church. But, I'm sure they could use one that Crispin describes - made up of people who have been "wrecked" by the love of God for people who need him most.
So, while driving down the main drag, I felt the heart of God for a part of the world that is as dear to me as my own life. They need to meet people who've been wrecked by God's love. My prayer was, and will be, "God, send someone, who's been wrecked by your love, to this place. And, if no one else will go, then send me." Some day. One day. Whenever.
Yeah, I'm wrecked, but it's OK.
Monday, June 01, 2009
We All Knew This Day Would Come
It seems like such a cliché' to write about how life changes, how people grow up and get older and then how everyone copes with it. After all, life happens to everybody and we all have to deal with it the one thing that binds us all together: change. As much as we fight it, struggle with how it makes us feel or what we must do to come to grips with it, everything will change. Musicians have made a living for themselves giving music and lyrics to all those feelings change stirs up within us. Writers and artists have applied their talents to provide words and pictures for the feelings that seem too deep for words. In spite of all our best efforts, we're never quite prepared for moment when change comes.
Some of our friends and family know that we've been talking with Mom & Dad about moving closer to me and my family or to my sister, Vicki, and her family in Victoria, Texas. We've had various plans in the past that never materialized. Recently, my wife and I raised the topic with them and we were moving forward with a plan to have them move closer to us in the fuzzy near-future. Of course, now with the events that unfolded over the weekend with my mother's wreck, we're looking at putting another gear on our plans. We've talked before about them moving and have discussed it a few times again this weekend. It will be really nice to have them nearby and check in on them regularly and have them more involved in our family. It's a great thing and I look forward to it. I hope they look forward to it with the same pleasant anticipation we have.
However, as the song says "each new beginning is another beginning's end," how does one go about leaving a place that has been "home" for such a long time? I often think about my parents' home as being such a significant place for me. However, it wasn't until my cousin, Brenda, mentioned it on Facebook a few days ago that I realized I'm not the only one who feels this way. It's the not the place that is so special. It's always been a small, wood-frame, two bedroom house on a simple 3/4's acre lot on one of the quietest streets in Malakoff, Texas. But, what made it so special is that it's the container that holds everyone's memories. 505 East Pine Avenue in Malakoff, Texas has held a lot of memories for a whole lot of people for a long time.
I came into this world after my brother and sister, along with most of their cousins, were all but grown. In those days, 505 E. Pine Avenue was known as 514 Pine and my grandparents lived in a small travel trailer parked right next to the house. I remember as a small child seeing all sorts of people coming to visit my grandparents. Aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws, outlaws - you name it - someone was always coming over to see my Pop and Grandmamma. I've heard my sister and different cousins talk about how my parents along with my aunts and uncles would go into the little 12 x 12 kitchen in my parents' house and close the door so they could visit, while the cousins would try to sleep on their pallets in the living room. Every now and then the kids would get too loud and one of the parents would open the door and tell the kids to be quiet and go to sleep, all the while laughing and telling stories late into the night.
I don't remember much anymore from the days when my grandparents lived next door to us. There are lots of stories and pictures from when I was set in the bed with my Pop to watch "rasslin" with him. But, there are two things I remember without pictures and they are as vivid as color television.
The first was when I was about 4 years old. I came bounding out of their trailer and right in my path was a brown, checkered snake curled up in the grass. I don't know how I was able to skip over it, but I did, and ran directly in the house. By the time I had gone inside and come back out with my mother, the snake was nowhere to be seen. From that day forward, I never bounded outside of the trailer. I looked before I would leap until their trailer was finally moved away.
The second event I remember at Grandmamma’s house had to do with my cousin, Randy Perkins. Randy was known as being “mentally retarded” in a time when political correctness hadn’t yet come into play. I was terrified of Randy not just because he was bigger than me and looked funny, but because he would take every opportunity to bully and physically hurt me. He once got a running start and knocked me off a tricycle in my parents’ driveway. When I saw Randy, all I wanted to do was RUN!
One day, I was over at Grandmamma’s enjoying tea and crackers when Randy and his mom, Georgina, pulled into the driveway. She knew I was scared of Randy, so she grabbed me and told me to go hide under a table and to be as quiet as I could. I scrambled under that table, slid the tablecloth down as far as I could and hardly breathed for half an hour. Georgina visited with Grandmamma while Randy messed with things in her house. I just knew he was looking for me. At one point, she told him to stop whatever he was doing – I guess it was because he was getting close to where I was. After what seemed like an eternity, I heard Georgina say “well, I guess we’d better go” and Grandmamma proceed to walk them out the door. Once they had pulled out of the driveway and gone down the street, she raised the tablecloth and told me that I could get out from under the table. (Now that I think about it, I honestly don’t remember if Grandmamma left my glass of tea and crackers on the table or if she put them away. If she didn’t, that may have been the reason why Randy was going through her house the way he did. ) I’ll always be grateful to her for protecting me that day.
Another thing about my parents’ house here in Malakoff is the history of pets we had here. The first pet I remember was a black, over-sized Chihuahua called Sissy, I think. I don’t remember what happened to her, but she was far from being the last pet at our house. We had several stray cats and dogs, as well as a few that we picked out from a litter of pups or kittens. At one point, we had the meanest horse in the entire world in our back yard, a Shetland pony named Poncho. He must have bitten everyone in the family. It was a great day when my brother-in-law sold him.
Because we had so many pets when I was a kid, there are also countless animal carcasses buried on my parents’ property, too: dogs, cats and one hamster all are out there, somewhere. There’s also a few pets buried at various places on the property of my parents’ church, Malakoff First Assembly of God. There’s even one pet buried in the median of Hwy 31.
Penny, the wonder-horse, known for breaking into local feed stores and chicken coops, opening gates and jumping cattle guards, broke out one last time and met his match. One Sunday morning, the local FFA teacher called my dad and told him that a horse that looked like Penny was lying dead on the road outside of Malakoff. Dad verified that it was Penny and consulted with a local attorney about what to do next. His advice to Dad was to not claim the horse. In spite of friends saying “Joel, I think your horse is dead on the east side of town,” (and several of them did) we didn’t say anything. To our knowledge no one was injured in the accident. But, poor ol’ Penny had to be tended to. That same day, the Henderson County Highway Department buried Penny in the median of Hwy 31 where it divides on the east side of town. I always wanted to put some sort of marker out there. But, I couldn’t do it without raising suspicion. So, when I head out east toward Athens, I always take a quick look to the north side of the road to pay my respects to the most amazing horse that ever lived.
One of the drawbacks of growing up in a small town is that people know things about each other. It’s not so bad if a person lives right. If they get in trouble, the whole world will know about it. If people have been the same place for a long time, there is a larger body of information to pull from. In my case, I was the third child attending the same schools my brother and sister attended, so everyone saw me coming. Fortunately, only a handful of teachers were still around who remembered my siblings by the time I was in their class. But, I had one teacher, Mrs. Helen Brewer, in high school, who took every opportunity to tell me that should be more like my brother or sister. “You’re too lazy!” I never got a break.
Then there are all the people who went to school with my brother and sister who had kids of their own who were my age. I remember being in art class looking at an old football program one time. One of the girls in the class said “Hey, look it’s my mom!” One of the guys said “That’s my mom!” I said “That’s my sister!” The table went quiet then everyone said “Nuh-uh!” It took some convincing to get them to believe me. Then, the same guy who identified his mom in the same picture said “hey, your sister is pretty!” I told him “And she’s the same age as your mom!” I couldn’t make this stuff up!
Literally, there’s a story at every turn in this little ol’ town. For me, this place was my entire world for the first 19 years of my life. It’s been the lone constant in the time since. I always knew I could go back home any time I needed to. As we get ready for this new phase of life, when Mom & Dad will come to live with me and my family, there are more mixed feelings than I ever expected. I will miss this place more profoundly than I can imagine right now. It’s not just a chapter that’s closing, either. It’s like finishing a major series of books and packing them away in a trunk to be shipped away.
Having said that, I must say that there is such an advantage to what we’re doing. I look forward to seeing my parents more regularly and to be involved with each others’ lives again. I think we’re thoroughly going to enjoy each other’s company. But, make no mistake…I’m really going to miss this place. I knew this day would come, but now that it’s here, I had no idea what I was in for until now.
Some of our friends and family know that we've been talking with Mom & Dad about moving closer to me and my family or to my sister, Vicki, and her family in Victoria, Texas. We've had various plans in the past that never materialized. Recently, my wife and I raised the topic with them and we were moving forward with a plan to have them move closer to us in the fuzzy near-future. Of course, now with the events that unfolded over the weekend with my mother's wreck, we're looking at putting another gear on our plans. We've talked before about them moving and have discussed it a few times again this weekend. It will be really nice to have them nearby and check in on them regularly and have them more involved in our family. It's a great thing and I look forward to it. I hope they look forward to it with the same pleasant anticipation we have.
However, as the song says "each new beginning is another beginning's end," how does one go about leaving a place that has been "home" for such a long time? I often think about my parents' home as being such a significant place for me. However, it wasn't until my cousin, Brenda, mentioned it on Facebook a few days ago that I realized I'm not the only one who feels this way. It's the not the place that is so special. It's always been a small, wood-frame, two bedroom house on a simple 3/4's acre lot on one of the quietest streets in Malakoff, Texas. But, what made it so special is that it's the container that holds everyone's memories. 505 East Pine Avenue in Malakoff, Texas has held a lot of memories for a whole lot of people for a long time.
I came into this world after my brother and sister, along with most of their cousins, were all but grown. In those days, 505 E. Pine Avenue was known as 514 Pine and my grandparents lived in a small travel trailer parked right next to the house. I remember as a small child seeing all sorts of people coming to visit my grandparents. Aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws, outlaws - you name it - someone was always coming over to see my Pop and Grandmamma. I've heard my sister and different cousins talk about how my parents along with my aunts and uncles would go into the little 12 x 12 kitchen in my parents' house and close the door so they could visit, while the cousins would try to sleep on their pallets in the living room. Every now and then the kids would get too loud and one of the parents would open the door and tell the kids to be quiet and go to sleep, all the while laughing and telling stories late into the night.
I don't remember much anymore from the days when my grandparents lived next door to us. There are lots of stories and pictures from when I was set in the bed with my Pop to watch "rasslin" with him. But, there are two things I remember without pictures and they are as vivid as color television.
The first was when I was about 4 years old. I came bounding out of their trailer and right in my path was a brown, checkered snake curled up in the grass. I don't know how I was able to skip over it, but I did, and ran directly in the house. By the time I had gone inside and come back out with my mother, the snake was nowhere to be seen. From that day forward, I never bounded outside of the trailer. I looked before I would leap until their trailer was finally moved away.
The second event I remember at Grandmamma’s house had to do with my cousin, Randy Perkins. Randy was known as being “mentally retarded” in a time when political correctness hadn’t yet come into play. I was terrified of Randy not just because he was bigger than me and looked funny, but because he would take every opportunity to bully and physically hurt me. He once got a running start and knocked me off a tricycle in my parents’ driveway. When I saw Randy, all I wanted to do was RUN!
One day, I was over at Grandmamma’s enjoying tea and crackers when Randy and his mom, Georgina, pulled into the driveway. She knew I was scared of Randy, so she grabbed me and told me to go hide under a table and to be as quiet as I could. I scrambled under that table, slid the tablecloth down as far as I could and hardly breathed for half an hour. Georgina visited with Grandmamma while Randy messed with things in her house. I just knew he was looking for me. At one point, she told him to stop whatever he was doing – I guess it was because he was getting close to where I was. After what seemed like an eternity, I heard Georgina say “well, I guess we’d better go” and Grandmamma proceed to walk them out the door. Once they had pulled out of the driveway and gone down the street, she raised the tablecloth and told me that I could get out from under the table. (Now that I think about it, I honestly don’t remember if Grandmamma left my glass of tea and crackers on the table or if she put them away. If she didn’t, that may have been the reason why Randy was going through her house the way he did. ) I’ll always be grateful to her for protecting me that day.
Another thing about my parents’ house here in Malakoff is the history of pets we had here. The first pet I remember was a black, over-sized Chihuahua called Sissy, I think. I don’t remember what happened to her, but she was far from being the last pet at our house. We had several stray cats and dogs, as well as a few that we picked out from a litter of pups or kittens. At one point, we had the meanest horse in the entire world in our back yard, a Shetland pony named Poncho. He must have bitten everyone in the family. It was a great day when my brother-in-law sold him.
Because we had so many pets when I was a kid, there are also countless animal carcasses buried on my parents’ property, too: dogs, cats and one hamster all are out there, somewhere. There’s also a few pets buried at various places on the property of my parents’ church, Malakoff First Assembly of God. There’s even one pet buried in the median of Hwy 31.
Penny, the wonder-horse, known for breaking into local feed stores and chicken coops, opening gates and jumping cattle guards, broke out one last time and met his match. One Sunday morning, the local FFA teacher called my dad and told him that a horse that looked like Penny was lying dead on the road outside of Malakoff. Dad verified that it was Penny and consulted with a local attorney about what to do next. His advice to Dad was to not claim the horse. In spite of friends saying “Joel, I think your horse is dead on the east side of town,” (and several of them did) we didn’t say anything. To our knowledge no one was injured in the accident. But, poor ol’ Penny had to be tended to. That same day, the Henderson County Highway Department buried Penny in the median of Hwy 31 where it divides on the east side of town. I always wanted to put some sort of marker out there. But, I couldn’t do it without raising suspicion. So, when I head out east toward Athens, I always take a quick look to the north side of the road to pay my respects to the most amazing horse that ever lived.
One of the drawbacks of growing up in a small town is that people know things about each other. It’s not so bad if a person lives right. If they get in trouble, the whole world will know about it. If people have been the same place for a long time, there is a larger body of information to pull from. In my case, I was the third child attending the same schools my brother and sister attended, so everyone saw me coming. Fortunately, only a handful of teachers were still around who remembered my siblings by the time I was in their class. But, I had one teacher, Mrs. Helen Brewer, in high school, who took every opportunity to tell me that should be more like my brother or sister. “You’re too lazy!” I never got a break.
Then there are all the people who went to school with my brother and sister who had kids of their own who were my age. I remember being in art class looking at an old football program one time. One of the girls in the class said “Hey, look it’s my mom!” One of the guys said “That’s my mom!” I said “That’s my sister!” The table went quiet then everyone said “Nuh-uh!” It took some convincing to get them to believe me. Then, the same guy who identified his mom in the same picture said “hey, your sister is pretty!” I told him “And she’s the same age as your mom!” I couldn’t make this stuff up!
Literally, there’s a story at every turn in this little ol’ town. For me, this place was my entire world for the first 19 years of my life. It’s been the lone constant in the time since. I always knew I could go back home any time I needed to. As we get ready for this new phase of life, when Mom & Dad will come to live with me and my family, there are more mixed feelings than I ever expected. I will miss this place more profoundly than I can imagine right now. It’s not just a chapter that’s closing, either. It’s like finishing a major series of books and packing them away in a trunk to be shipped away.
Having said that, I must say that there is such an advantage to what we’re doing. I look forward to seeing my parents more regularly and to be involved with each others’ lives again. I think we’re thoroughly going to enjoy each other’s company. But, make no mistake…I’m really going to miss this place. I knew this day would come, but now that it’s here, I had no idea what I was in for until now.
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