My beautiful friend Traycee McCall Facebooked me the other day and told me that Matt Payne had died. It hit me hard right in my solar plexus, like a forearm blow from a linebacker as you're running down the field to score. It stops you hard and you see stars. Then you find yourself laid out flat on your back. Oomph! Pretty sore when you come back to the huddle. You glance over at the linebacker, who laughs and raises his fist at you, middle finger extended.
Life is like a mean middle linebacker sometime.
Matt Payne lived two house down from me in Chesopean Colony, or The Colony as we all called it back then. Maybe they still do, or maybe they've given it a fancy new name like Ye Olde Colony. We lived on Sandy Valley Road, on the Eastern Branch of the Lynnhaven River. We went to school together and grew up together. We were friends.
Matt was a year or two older then me, twin brother of Melanie, the dark-haired beauty all the guys got googoo-eyed over; but we all knew she was untouchable. Mainly because if we DID touch her Matt and his older brother Peewee would kick the living crap out of us. Or even worse, Mr. Payne would get involved and break both our legs. He was nice but.... scary.
Both Peewee and Matt picked up a certain scary gravitas from their Dad. Gravitas is Latin for, "mess with me and I will seriously kick the crap out of you." OK not really. It really means a type of weight of character, a personal gravity that people take seriously. If there was a Latin word to describe me it would be the opposite of gravitas. Smokytas.
Peewee was the guy who first told me about being with a woman, complete with anatomical descriptions, and specifically with certain loose women at school. Thanks to Peewee I never went close to those women as I was completely grossed out by the idea. I don't think that was his goal, and think he was probably trying to convince me of the thrill of conquering certain women who were, uh, extremely easy to conquer. This just had no appeal to me, even though I was very much in love with women and was determined to conquer some or even hundreds before I died. So many notches that my belt would come apart. That would be a fine day, or so I thought.
Peewee was also the man who introduced me to certain male words of affection, like Dickweed. He used to call Matt and me that pretty much all the time, or whenever we got on his nerve, which was pretty much all the time. I remember thinking that Dickweed was not a word I would say at the kitchen table, as I did not want my Dad to remove my head from my body. But when Peewee called me Dickweed it felt like I was in the family. Part of the family. That sounds crazy to me now, but it was and is the truth.
Matt kind of took me under his wing, like a little brother. He taught me how to hunt ducks and birds. This was tremendously exciting to me and I took in all the lessons with the intention of becoming an excellent hunter. Turns out I was not such an excellent hunter but I did like the adventure of getting up early, putting out decoys and drinking coffee laced with bourbon or other spirits stolen from our dad's bars.
We became expert at stealing from our dad's bars, and eventually took to the water and planned and executed a raid one summer night on a house on an inlet where the owner was stupid enough to have a bar full of liquor near his pool, separated from the house. Near the water and the boats filled with camouflaged 14-year-olds. Might as well of been a neon sign saying, "FREE BOOZE." We really enjoyed the rewards of that night, if you included getting sick a reward.
Matt had a kind of patience with me that I never understood. I was complicated and loud and he was simple and direct, with quiet strength. I guess we made a good team. Matt was an old soul. To some folks this means he's been reincarnated so many times he has super-sensory abilities and is at peace. That he knew more about life then other folks his own age. Certainly more than me. I think I am a new soul. Everything seems new to me.
I wish I was one of those people who remember every detail from their lives, but I'm not. I could blame it on alcohol and drugs ingested in high school, or legal drugs ingested as an adult. I tell folks I have holes in my memory and I don't really know why. All I do know is that folks come up to me all the time and say things like, "John Koehler! Wow, you don't remember me at all, do you?" Now why would they say that? Could it be my wide-open mouth, my deer in the headlights look of confusion? Or maybe because I'm backing away from them and looking for an exit.
I wish I could remember details about my time with Matt. But instead what I have is a feeling and a chunk of time spent and lost memories turned into heart cells. Matt Payne was a good man and he loved me like his brother. He passed on what his brother gave to him and so I became Matt's favorite Dickweed. And I was happy about it.
I could always count on Matt to be there for me. He just was. Matt just was. Some people just ain't, but Matt just was. He was there. Matt had a Boxer that followed us around the neighborhood. I can't remember his name. He was the mortal enemy of John Woody's dog. Can't remember his name either but he was a big collie. Probably about the same size as Matt's boxer, but all that hair made him look a lot bigger.
One day we were hanging out over a Woody's house and the dogs started fighting. They did that a lot in those days. But this day was bad and Matt's dog was getting beat up and starting to bleed and yelping with pain. So Matt waded in and grabbed his dog and tried to pull him out of the fight. You shouldn't get in the middle of fighting dogs.
Sure enough when the dogs broke up, Matt was bleeding really bad, cut up by the dog's teeth as they fought. He had to get a lot of stitches that day. That was a stupid but courageous thing Matt did and I will never forget it. He may have saved his dog's life, but he nearly ended his own. If one of the dog's had nicked his carotid artery it would have been over really quick. But he didn't care. He had to save his dog. And so he did, injuries be damned.
I think we build our character out of the best and worst of people in our lives. We are like chameleons and try on the skin of others to see if it works for us. We tear off a bit of who they are and swallow it down into our lives and so, in the end, they become part of us. Matt became part of me. The better part of me.
He taught me about courage and about girls. He taught me about hunting and about truth and telling the truth. He taught me about girls. Oh....wait, did I already say that? Matt Payne taught me about life and I am grateful for his life. Grateful that he was willing and able to take me under his wing and love me as his brother.
Thanks Matt!
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Last Blog entry
I am happy to say that most of the stories in this blog will be published soon in a book called "My Inflatable Heart." Sending the book to the editor closed a chapter that needed to be closed, so I'm going to stop making entries in this blog and may close it. I don't know. Is is cool to let a blog go fallow?
But alas, not one to waste any time, I have started a new blog and have started posting stories on it. You are invited to come if you like. But I already know someone that will read every story, and to whom I'm writing them.
http://myinflatableheart.blogspot.com/
But alas, not one to waste any time, I have started a new blog and have started posting stories on it. You are invited to come if you like. But I already know someone that will read every story, and to whom I'm writing them.
http://myinflatableheart.blogspot.com/
Saturday, March 22, 2008
The Execution of Mr. Nut
Sometimes life brings me the most amazing and unplanned stories. Stories I could never imagine that come to life before me as a gift, wrapped up and ready to be opened and enjoyed.
Now I do realize that I’m opening myself up to a lawsuit from PETA or some other animal rights group, so let me be clear. I am NOT taking pleasure from the mishap of a certain squirrel this fine morning when the world was waking up and I was working on a video.
The execution I speak of in the title was not an execution I had anything to do with, your honor, and if it pleases the court I will show that I was merely a witness to the facts as they unfolded before me. An innocent witness in fact.
Furthermore, let the record show that I did in fact give the victim, Mr. Nut, an excellent burial. Considering the fact that Mr. Nut’s body was in a rather disgusting shape (bulging eyes, smoking hole in his chest), I would hope that my burial service would assuage any feelings against me and prove to the court that I was in fact acting as a good citizen in this terrible matter.
At approximately 7:45 this morning I was editing a video and preparing to work on the book that is before you. I was sitting in my studio on the second floor, with the windows to my left and a view of my driveway and on out to the street.
Suddenly there was a loud BANG that came from the outside, accompanied by loud beeps and clicks inside as the power cut off. I knew at once that it was the electrical transformer located on the pole at the end of my driveway and turned to see a cat streaking away from the pole, hairs fluffed out in fright.
Four Automatic Power Controllers beeped at me as I walked outside to see what I could see. I didn’t want to call Dominion Power until I could clearly see the cause of the problem, and was fairly certain that I would find the cause as I had many times before.
I walked down my driveway and out to the street, where I looked up at the transformer located on the top of the pole. I could see no obvious problem. Once there was a bird that had managed to fly (or fry if you prefer) into the electric line, barbecuing itself and creating enough of a surge that the automatic fuse blew, along with the power to several houses on our street.
But I saw nothing and walked down the street, looking up at the wire and thinking maybe it didn’t occur at our pole but further down the street. Nothing there either.
Then I walked back to the pole and looked around the base, where I found poor Mr. Nut (the squirrel) laying on his side, dead as a doornail. Mr. Nut had obviously been chased up the pole by Mr. Whiskers, the cat I had seen running away after the explosion caused by Mr. Nut trying to flee on an electric line.
Clearly Mr. Whiskers wanted to kill Mr. Nut, but equally as clear was his desire to execute his enemy in close claw-to-claw combat. Mr. Whiskers had probably been chasing Mr. Nut for several years without success, yet he continued to stalk him in the hope that this time vengeance would be his.
Many times before Mr. Nut allowed Mr. Whiskers to get close enough to smell him. Tail twitching rapidly behind him, ears flattened against his body, Mr. Whiskers approached each time with absolute assurance of imminent victory.
But Mr. Nut managed to always stay a jump ahead and would run up the tree he had pre-positioned for his bail-out maneuver. After ascending to a safe place on a branch above his nemesis, Mr. Nut would fling down insults of the worst kind while Mr. Whiskers slowly walked off as if he had not a care in the world.
In the end it is hard to say why the tables turned on Mr. Nut. Was it simply his fate that on this morning he would lose the game and lose his life?
Or did he simply eat – as happens to us all – a stupid pill? Or stupid nut, whichever you prefer. Was it destiny or chance or a little bit of both? Who knows. Whatever it was it was a fatal mistake that caused Mr. Nut to run up the pole and then decide to make the run down the electrical line of death. Dead squirrel running.
Mr. Whiskers watched from the tree as his enemy ran away as he had so many times before. Then the BANG and Mr. Nut fell dead to the ground while Mr. Whiskers ran for his life as if the very worst creatures of cat hell were after him.
Poor Mr. Nut.
What kind of squirrel would make such a simple and fatal mistake when everyone in Squirrel Land knew to avoid the electrical lines? What kind of squirrel would so lose his head that he would allow a cat to execute him from afar? What kind of squirrel would allow this to happen?
Only a Nut.
Now I do realize that I’m opening myself up to a lawsuit from PETA or some other animal rights group, so let me be clear. I am NOT taking pleasure from the mishap of a certain squirrel this fine morning when the world was waking up and I was working on a video.
The execution I speak of in the title was not an execution I had anything to do with, your honor, and if it pleases the court I will show that I was merely a witness to the facts as they unfolded before me. An innocent witness in fact.
Furthermore, let the record show that I did in fact give the victim, Mr. Nut, an excellent burial. Considering the fact that Mr. Nut’s body was in a rather disgusting shape (bulging eyes, smoking hole in his chest), I would hope that my burial service would assuage any feelings against me and prove to the court that I was in fact acting as a good citizen in this terrible matter.
At approximately 7:45 this morning I was editing a video and preparing to work on the book that is before you. I was sitting in my studio on the second floor, with the windows to my left and a view of my driveway and on out to the street.
Suddenly there was a loud BANG that came from the outside, accompanied by loud beeps and clicks inside as the power cut off. I knew at once that it was the electrical transformer located on the pole at the end of my driveway and turned to see a cat streaking away from the pole, hairs fluffed out in fright.
Four Automatic Power Controllers beeped at me as I walked outside to see what I could see. I didn’t want to call Dominion Power until I could clearly see the cause of the problem, and was fairly certain that I would find the cause as I had many times before.
I walked down my driveway and out to the street, where I looked up at the transformer located on the top of the pole. I could see no obvious problem. Once there was a bird that had managed to fly (or fry if you prefer) into the electric line, barbecuing itself and creating enough of a surge that the automatic fuse blew, along with the power to several houses on our street.
But I saw nothing and walked down the street, looking up at the wire and thinking maybe it didn’t occur at our pole but further down the street. Nothing there either.
Then I walked back to the pole and looked around the base, where I found poor Mr. Nut (the squirrel) laying on his side, dead as a doornail. Mr. Nut had obviously been chased up the pole by Mr. Whiskers, the cat I had seen running away after the explosion caused by Mr. Nut trying to flee on an electric line.
Clearly Mr. Whiskers wanted to kill Mr. Nut, but equally as clear was his desire to execute his enemy in close claw-to-claw combat. Mr. Whiskers had probably been chasing Mr. Nut for several years without success, yet he continued to stalk him in the hope that this time vengeance would be his.
Many times before Mr. Nut allowed Mr. Whiskers to get close enough to smell him. Tail twitching rapidly behind him, ears flattened against his body, Mr. Whiskers approached each time with absolute assurance of imminent victory.
But Mr. Nut managed to always stay a jump ahead and would run up the tree he had pre-positioned for his bail-out maneuver. After ascending to a safe place on a branch above his nemesis, Mr. Nut would fling down insults of the worst kind while Mr. Whiskers slowly walked off as if he had not a care in the world.
In the end it is hard to say why the tables turned on Mr. Nut. Was it simply his fate that on this morning he would lose the game and lose his life?
Or did he simply eat – as happens to us all – a stupid pill? Or stupid nut, whichever you prefer. Was it destiny or chance or a little bit of both? Who knows. Whatever it was it was a fatal mistake that caused Mr. Nut to run up the pole and then decide to make the run down the electrical line of death. Dead squirrel running.
Mr. Whiskers watched from the tree as his enemy ran away as he had so many times before. Then the BANG and Mr. Nut fell dead to the ground while Mr. Whiskers ran for his life as if the very worst creatures of cat hell were after him.
Poor Mr. Nut.
What kind of squirrel would make such a simple and fatal mistake when everyone in Squirrel Land knew to avoid the electrical lines? What kind of squirrel would so lose his head that he would allow a cat to execute him from afar? What kind of squirrel would allow this to happen?
Only a Nut.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
My Fallow Blog
An old (meaning he's either over 40 or I've known him for more than ten years) friend of mine told me recently that he would subscribe to my blog if I subscribed to his. But the deal was I had to update mine first.
The implication of course was that I was a schmuck for not putting anything new on it since Christmas Day, 2007. The rules of Blogging and podcasting are clear: your Blog or podcast will remain relevant and worthy ONLY if you continue to post new information that is fresh and created by you. Seems like a good rule.
Unless you are all about breaking rules AND a creative. An artist.
Ah, that is the caveat that I use, the excuse that I am pulling from my excuse bag and hoisting above me in a bubble of grace that can not be penetrated by even the worst shame or sarcasm. Probably because I have no feelings at all, but also because I simply don't care what rules people place upon my creative outlet and the way that I release whatever it is that I release to the world.
An artist paints or draws first to provide a personal outlet for their own internal passion. Then if others desire the work the artist may share it or show it or say it or play it. But it is a very personal decision. At any time the artist may chose to simply stop playing or painting or writing or singing. Perhaps to refresh or because their muse is on vacation or out of town.
Whatever the case may be, a creative endeavor does not always fit the rules of blogging, podcasting or other modern constraints of timely relevance. Three things can happen to correct the "problem."
1. The artist does new work and shares it.
2. The artist removes the show or in this case blog.
3. The artist allows the fields of his work to lay fallow for a while.
My friend and spiritual brother Allen Nebrich died last December. It would be easy for me to tell you that his death caused my writing desire to flee. I think that is partly true. But I think it is also true that I turned my passions and creative talents elsewhere.
When Allen died I created two memorial videos about him and posted them on You Tube. I was amazed at the instantaneous success and the incredible number of views the videos received from friends and complete strangers. Allen's ministry was able to continue through these videos. I became a complete You Tube junky and began posting other videos I had created and produced about Capernaum.
I joined You Tube's nonprofit program and received a free Flip video camera, which we now use weekly to create and post Capernaum videos. You can see these videos at http://www.youtube.com/capernaumjohn
Meanwhile I also came to the conclusion that it was time for me to write my third book. I had always intended that this blog would provide a good basis of stories for the book and so it has. I needed this blog to allow me the vehicle to stream and write these many blog stories which are now being transfered to a book layout. Book three.
That is what I wanted to tell you. Nothing more. I don't ask for your forgiveness or patience in this matter. Yet I hope that some of these stories have brought you joy and understanding and will pay in part for the fallow times of this blog. I do not promise much if anything in the weeks ahead, because I can not predict where my passion will take me. I follow it. I do not lead it.
Your affectionate friend,
John
The implication of course was that I was a schmuck for not putting anything new on it since Christmas Day, 2007. The rules of Blogging and podcasting are clear: your Blog or podcast will remain relevant and worthy ONLY if you continue to post new information that is fresh and created by you. Seems like a good rule.
Unless you are all about breaking rules AND a creative. An artist.
Ah, that is the caveat that I use, the excuse that I am pulling from my excuse bag and hoisting above me in a bubble of grace that can not be penetrated by even the worst shame or sarcasm. Probably because I have no feelings at all, but also because I simply don't care what rules people place upon my creative outlet and the way that I release whatever it is that I release to the world.
An artist paints or draws first to provide a personal outlet for their own internal passion. Then if others desire the work the artist may share it or show it or say it or play it. But it is a very personal decision. At any time the artist may chose to simply stop playing or painting or writing or singing. Perhaps to refresh or because their muse is on vacation or out of town.
Whatever the case may be, a creative endeavor does not always fit the rules of blogging, podcasting or other modern constraints of timely relevance. Three things can happen to correct the "problem."
1. The artist does new work and shares it.
2. The artist removes the show or in this case blog.
3. The artist allows the fields of his work to lay fallow for a while.
My friend and spiritual brother Allen Nebrich died last December. It would be easy for me to tell you that his death caused my writing desire to flee. I think that is partly true. But I think it is also true that I turned my passions and creative talents elsewhere.
When Allen died I created two memorial videos about him and posted them on You Tube. I was amazed at the instantaneous success and the incredible number of views the videos received from friends and complete strangers. Allen's ministry was able to continue through these videos. I became a complete You Tube junky and began posting other videos I had created and produced about Capernaum.
I joined You Tube's nonprofit program and received a free Flip video camera, which we now use weekly to create and post Capernaum videos. You can see these videos at http://www.youtube.com/capernaumjohn
Meanwhile I also came to the conclusion that it was time for me to write my third book. I had always intended that this blog would provide a good basis of stories for the book and so it has. I needed this blog to allow me the vehicle to stream and write these many blog stories which are now being transfered to a book layout. Book three.
That is what I wanted to tell you. Nothing more. I don't ask for your forgiveness or patience in this matter. Yet I hope that some of these stories have brought you joy and understanding and will pay in part for the fallow times of this blog. I do not promise much if anything in the weeks ahead, because I can not predict where my passion will take me. I follow it. I do not lead it.
Your affectionate friend,
John
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Capernaum- Chapter 1
Chapter One
____________
In the Beginning
dedicated to Allen Nebrich
1974 - 2007
Go out quickly into the streets and alleys
of the town and bring in the poor, the crippled,
the blind and the lame.
Luke 14:21
In the beginning was Allen.
God brought us together as brothers of different mothers and there was no mistaking it. We were as different as peas and carrots yet, as Forrest Gump points out, we’re both vegetables.
And THAT would be the point of Forrest’s saying, “we’re just like peas and carrots.”
God brings us together in spite of our differences and similarities. In spite of the physical, emotional, mental and spiritual comparisons we make about each other, we are called to find the very things that draw us together and unite us in the midst of the vast fields of separation in our lives.
I met Allen way back in 2003, in the atrium of Spring Branch Community Church. I was coming out of church after the service and noticed a big dude in a wheelchair just outside the doors, over near the windows. He was talking to a lady and I got in line to talk to him.
Why did I get in line, you ask? Well, I don’t rightly know, truth be told. It just seemed natural. I wanted to know who he was and why he was there. I was simply curious and being a gregarious sort, I just got in line to fulfill the destiny of our meeting. The meeting that God had arranged and setup with a twinkle and a smile.
I looked at him as he continued to converse with the lady. He was one sorry looking sucker, I can tell you that! Now before you turn me into the police, or call the National Guard, you need to understand one thing: this book will be about honesty and telling the truth, no matter how much it might hurt your feelings or seem as if it hurt someone else’s feelings. I am a truth teller, and while I do not go around trying to incite riots or upset folks, sometimes I do.
There is absolutely no question that I would be much better off by shutting my big pie hole and NOT sharing the words that just materialized in my brain a nanosecond before unleashing them on the world. Perhaps I would be better served if I ran the words through the filter of my heart.
But here’s the deal. My heart is a cauldron, and the truth is that my SOUL lives in my brain. So all that I think and feel is mixed up in one place. All the good that God gives me, all the great stuff I read and hear and see is mixed in with all that is wrong with me.
All of my bad behaviors compete with my good and, truth be told, I don’t always know which side is going to win out when I open the trap door to the dungeons that hold my treasure and my garbage. The trap door otherwise known as my mouth. Or, in this case, the fingers that are flying across the keyboards as these words spill out of me and across time for you to see.
Telling the truth about how someone looks or acts when I am good friends or family with them is not mean in my world. It is just accurate, and if I am to tell you the truth and invite you in to the world of Capernaum, you must hear everything. The good, the bad, the ugly and the beautiful.
Back to Allen.
Allen Nebrich was one gnarly looking dude! If you could pull his big white butt out of his wheelchair (and I did many times) and unbend his crooked sinews and bones and muscles, he would stand about 6’4” or maybe an inch or two taller. He weighed about 175 lbs. soakin’ wet and felt like a hippo when you were tired.
Now from a weight standpoint, that is not the largest man on the planet by far. But from the standpoint of having to carry him or lift him from his wheelchair or bed or a chair or even a zip line lift, Allen was a huge man and one sure to test the limits of your endurance if you aimed to care for him as I did in my complete stupidity and ignorance.
Allen was born with Cerebral Palsy. This is a condition that occurs at birth and usually affects the body and mind in some way. In Allen’s case, by the time he was 20, he could not walk on his own and spent a good deal of time in a wheelchair.
His legs were pencil thing, his atrophied muscles fairly useless and under used due to the mixed signals between his brain and his lower limbs. He could move his legs some, as I quickly found out when after I had busted him for something stupid he had done, he kicked me. So much for the pity party!
His arms were also scarecrow thin. His right arm we affectionately named “the claw,” because it was permanently bent backwards, stiffly reaching behind him like a huge cats whisker. Quite useless to him and prone to bump up against doorways.
His left arm was his hero, and it gave Allen the freedom he needed to connect with the world, travel on his own and even shake hands. Allen would lean forward in his chair, reach across his lap and man the joystick and buttons of his controller. This plus the weak muscles of his abdomen and back caused him to stay in a perpetual forward lean.
When he looked at you from this leaning position it was as if he could barely stand to look at you from the corner of his eyes. But Allen would have preferred nothing more than to stand together with you and look you in the eye while you talked and laughed without a care or thought about your bipedal balance.
Allen wore glasses, held on by a strap that slipped and came undone. He couldn’t adjust this himself and relied on the kindness and care of others to help him with that and many other adjustments in his life.
His wheelchair was his chariot, capable of going on road or off, as I came to realize later. Battery powered, it could attain speeds of 8 mph, twice as fast as a strong walker. Often Allen attached a fiberglass rod to the back of his wheelchair with an orange safety flag at the top.
I remember seeing him zipping along Great Neck Road or First Colonial on his way back home or perhaps to the video store. If cars were in the way of my sight, all I would see was his flag resolutely rolling forward, announcing to the world to watch out for the
charioteer that was in their midst, fearless and strange.
At last the lady was done and I stepped up and announced, “Hey dude, my name’s John. What’s your name?” That is pretty much exactly how I would introduce myself to anyone. Since I’m from the oceanfront, “dude” is synonymous with man, and “chick” for woman. I called everyone dude. I call the highest ranking and most influential people I know dude.
And they like it!
So did Allen. He body started pulsing back and forth as he fought to answer me with his stuttering, popping and explosive method of speaking. This is from the palsy (Cerebral PALSY) that constantly washed over him in waves. From his difficulty breathing and speaking at the same time, and from weak facial muscles that just didn’t connect to the nerves that waited on his cranial orders.
“Muh, muh, muh, my nuh nuh nuh namesallen.”
I caught his name in the rush of the run on sentence and put out my hand to shake his. At first I thought he was trying to bring up his right hand, since that is the typical way guys shake, but instead he gave me his left hand, with its permanently bent fingers and wrist.
I asked him why he was in a wheelchair and over the next several minutes he told me about his CP (Cerebral Palsy). I asked him about his body parts because I wanted to know what worked and what did not work. I wasn’t trying to queer or fresh, I just really wanted to know.
Here was a crippled man that was obviously capable of coming to church, carrying on a conversation and having rational thought. I was simply curious to know how he did it and how he overcame his ill-mannered and obviously deformed body.
My mother had always told my brothers and sisters as we were growing up, “If you are ever with someone that has something unusually or strange about them or on them, just ask them about it.” Be nice about it but ask them. So I did.
Allen told me about being born and the problems involved. He told me about growing up and how he could walk with some help until he was a teenager. How he was main streamed into classes because, while his body was crippled, his mind was not. This was of course not always the case, and Allen was on the cusp of change in thinking about and serving kids with disabilities.
He told me about his Mom, his advocate and provider. The woman who was always there for him, to care for him and provide for him. Lynda was a Mom that fought for her son, because if she did not fight, he would be forgotten in a system and world that still wanted to put him away where we didn’t have to deal with his kind. The kind of people we’d just as soon not have to look at and surely not have to treat like “normal” folks.
He told me that his Dad was a, “Duh duh deadbeat Dad.”
So often in marriages that have a child with disabilities, the emotional, physical and financial strain of caring for the child is simply too much. More often than not, it is the father that leaves, leaving the mother to be the sole provider and defender of the realm that is their child’s.
In the case of Lynda, her compassion and love for her son was balanced by her ferocity and sheer force to overcome and break through the old school mind-set of that time. In the case of Allen, that time started in 1974, when most folks thought of integration and civil rights as only something for black folks to fight for.
But as far as Lynda was concerned, Allen might as well have been black. I have noticed over the years the ferocity and tenacity of black mommas for their kids. Partly because in many cases the Dad’s are deadbeat like Allen’s was. Partly because they can see both the latent beauty and perfection in their child and the fact that society sees neither.
If I was a child put down by the world, I’d love to have a black Mom loving me and fighting for me. Or Lynda Nebrich, or any of the Capernaum Mom’s I’ve come to adore over the past few years.
If you value your life, don’t mess with the Moms!
____________
In the Beginning
dedicated to Allen Nebrich
1974 - 2007
Go out quickly into the streets and alleys
of the town and bring in the poor, the crippled,
the blind and the lame.
Luke 14:21
In the beginning was Allen.
God brought us together as brothers of different mothers and there was no mistaking it. We were as different as peas and carrots yet, as Forrest Gump points out, we’re both vegetables.
And THAT would be the point of Forrest’s saying, “we’re just like peas and carrots.”
God brings us together in spite of our differences and similarities. In spite of the physical, emotional, mental and spiritual comparisons we make about each other, we are called to find the very things that draw us together and unite us in the midst of the vast fields of separation in our lives.
I met Allen way back in 2003, in the atrium of Spring Branch Community Church. I was coming out of church after the service and noticed a big dude in a wheelchair just outside the doors, over near the windows. He was talking to a lady and I got in line to talk to him.
Why did I get in line, you ask? Well, I don’t rightly know, truth be told. It just seemed natural. I wanted to know who he was and why he was there. I was simply curious and being a gregarious sort, I just got in line to fulfill the destiny of our meeting. The meeting that God had arranged and setup with a twinkle and a smile.
I looked at him as he continued to converse with the lady. He was one sorry looking sucker, I can tell you that! Now before you turn me into the police, or call the National Guard, you need to understand one thing: this book will be about honesty and telling the truth, no matter how much it might hurt your feelings or seem as if it hurt someone else’s feelings. I am a truth teller, and while I do not go around trying to incite riots or upset folks, sometimes I do.
There is absolutely no question that I would be much better off by shutting my big pie hole and NOT sharing the words that just materialized in my brain a nanosecond before unleashing them on the world. Perhaps I would be better served if I ran the words through the filter of my heart.
But here’s the deal. My heart is a cauldron, and the truth is that my SOUL lives in my brain. So all that I think and feel is mixed up in one place. All the good that God gives me, all the great stuff I read and hear and see is mixed in with all that is wrong with me.
All of my bad behaviors compete with my good and, truth be told, I don’t always know which side is going to win out when I open the trap door to the dungeons that hold my treasure and my garbage. The trap door otherwise known as my mouth. Or, in this case, the fingers that are flying across the keyboards as these words spill out of me and across time for you to see.
Telling the truth about how someone looks or acts when I am good friends or family with them is not mean in my world. It is just accurate, and if I am to tell you the truth and invite you in to the world of Capernaum, you must hear everything. The good, the bad, the ugly and the beautiful.
Back to Allen.
Allen Nebrich was one gnarly looking dude! If you could pull his big white butt out of his wheelchair (and I did many times) and unbend his crooked sinews and bones and muscles, he would stand about 6’4” or maybe an inch or two taller. He weighed about 175 lbs. soakin’ wet and felt like a hippo when you were tired.
Now from a weight standpoint, that is not the largest man on the planet by far. But from the standpoint of having to carry him or lift him from his wheelchair or bed or a chair or even a zip line lift, Allen was a huge man and one sure to test the limits of your endurance if you aimed to care for him as I did in my complete stupidity and ignorance.
Allen was born with Cerebral Palsy. This is a condition that occurs at birth and usually affects the body and mind in some way. In Allen’s case, by the time he was 20, he could not walk on his own and spent a good deal of time in a wheelchair.
His legs were pencil thing, his atrophied muscles fairly useless and under used due to the mixed signals between his brain and his lower limbs. He could move his legs some, as I quickly found out when after I had busted him for something stupid he had done, he kicked me. So much for the pity party!
His arms were also scarecrow thin. His right arm we affectionately named “the claw,” because it was permanently bent backwards, stiffly reaching behind him like a huge cats whisker. Quite useless to him and prone to bump up against doorways.
His left arm was his hero, and it gave Allen the freedom he needed to connect with the world, travel on his own and even shake hands. Allen would lean forward in his chair, reach across his lap and man the joystick and buttons of his controller. This plus the weak muscles of his abdomen and back caused him to stay in a perpetual forward lean.
When he looked at you from this leaning position it was as if he could barely stand to look at you from the corner of his eyes. But Allen would have preferred nothing more than to stand together with you and look you in the eye while you talked and laughed without a care or thought about your bipedal balance.
Allen wore glasses, held on by a strap that slipped and came undone. He couldn’t adjust this himself and relied on the kindness and care of others to help him with that and many other adjustments in his life.
His wheelchair was his chariot, capable of going on road or off, as I came to realize later. Battery powered, it could attain speeds of 8 mph, twice as fast as a strong walker. Often Allen attached a fiberglass rod to the back of his wheelchair with an orange safety flag at the top.
I remember seeing him zipping along Great Neck Road or First Colonial on his way back home or perhaps to the video store. If cars were in the way of my sight, all I would see was his flag resolutely rolling forward, announcing to the world to watch out for the
charioteer that was in their midst, fearless and strange.
At last the lady was done and I stepped up and announced, “Hey dude, my name’s John. What’s your name?” That is pretty much exactly how I would introduce myself to anyone. Since I’m from the oceanfront, “dude” is synonymous with man, and “chick” for woman. I called everyone dude. I call the highest ranking and most influential people I know dude.
And they like it!
So did Allen. He body started pulsing back and forth as he fought to answer me with his stuttering, popping and explosive method of speaking. This is from the palsy (Cerebral PALSY) that constantly washed over him in waves. From his difficulty breathing and speaking at the same time, and from weak facial muscles that just didn’t connect to the nerves that waited on his cranial orders.
“Muh, muh, muh, my nuh nuh nuh namesallen.”
I caught his name in the rush of the run on sentence and put out my hand to shake his. At first I thought he was trying to bring up his right hand, since that is the typical way guys shake, but instead he gave me his left hand, with its permanently bent fingers and wrist.
I asked him why he was in a wheelchair and over the next several minutes he told me about his CP (Cerebral Palsy). I asked him about his body parts because I wanted to know what worked and what did not work. I wasn’t trying to queer or fresh, I just really wanted to know.
Here was a crippled man that was obviously capable of coming to church, carrying on a conversation and having rational thought. I was simply curious to know how he did it and how he overcame his ill-mannered and obviously deformed body.
My mother had always told my brothers and sisters as we were growing up, “If you are ever with someone that has something unusually or strange about them or on them, just ask them about it.” Be nice about it but ask them. So I did.
Allen told me about being born and the problems involved. He told me about growing up and how he could walk with some help until he was a teenager. How he was main streamed into classes because, while his body was crippled, his mind was not. This was of course not always the case, and Allen was on the cusp of change in thinking about and serving kids with disabilities.
He told me about his Mom, his advocate and provider. The woman who was always there for him, to care for him and provide for him. Lynda was a Mom that fought for her son, because if she did not fight, he would be forgotten in a system and world that still wanted to put him away where we didn’t have to deal with his kind. The kind of people we’d just as soon not have to look at and surely not have to treat like “normal” folks.
He told me that his Dad was a, “Duh duh deadbeat Dad.”
So often in marriages that have a child with disabilities, the emotional, physical and financial strain of caring for the child is simply too much. More often than not, it is the father that leaves, leaving the mother to be the sole provider and defender of the realm that is their child’s.
In the case of Lynda, her compassion and love for her son was balanced by her ferocity and sheer force to overcome and break through the old school mind-set of that time. In the case of Allen, that time started in 1974, when most folks thought of integration and civil rights as only something for black folks to fight for.
But as far as Lynda was concerned, Allen might as well have been black. I have noticed over the years the ferocity and tenacity of black mommas for their kids. Partly because in many cases the Dad’s are deadbeat like Allen’s was. Partly because they can see both the latent beauty and perfection in their child and the fact that society sees neither.
If I was a child put down by the world, I’d love to have a black Mom loving me and fighting for me. Or Lynda Nebrich, or any of the Capernaum Mom’s I’ve come to adore over the past few years.
If you value your life, don’t mess with the Moms!
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Parking Details
This story is available as a podcast by clicking here
Yesterday was a big day for me, a day I had been waiting for a long time. Like walking by a construction site and the guy driving the giant Caterpillar Destructo Excavator invites me over to drive his rig for an hour or two. One brother to another.
No need to worry, he would of course give me the requisite fifteen minutes of hands-on training needed to be an immediate expert with the various hand and foot controls. After completely destroying the two stories of new construction that did not need to be destroyed, I would then drive the Excavator out onto Atlantic Avenue where complete strangers would randomly flag me down to come and destroy their million dollar homes.
Man food of the mind, folks, a veritable banquet.
Yesterday I fulfilled one of my Man Hopes to be on the parking detail at Spring Branch Church. I had been invited to help before but for various reasons had not been able to help. Perhaps I had stubbed my toe or drank too many cups of joe or didn’t want to make it so. Or perhaps I merely had contained my Manly Needs in this area.
Whatever the case, last week I was once again invited by Jerry Gallinedes – whose name might as well be Greek its so hard to spell – to help with the parking detail and, giving in to the inevitable, I agreed. Soon the list was passed around by way of email and there for all to see, my name appeared next to an amazing title: Midfielder. To say I was excited would be to say that a dog was excited to find a large steak bone recently grilled with two days worth of meat left on it. Of COURSE the dog was excited, as was I; my tail was wagging.
Here at last my name was written in the Parking Hall of Fame, and as yet I had done nothing. Even so, they knew who I was. I counted for something and felt my pride expand within me like helium engorging the blimp that would soon soar over the little people crawling so slowly down below. Not that there’s anything wrong with little people.
I showed up at the proper time and already the butterflies were raging inside of me. Not quite the pterodactyls of old that filled me prior to a world championship event or my first date, but still they flew within me. How would I do? Would I embarrass myself? Would I embarrass the church? Actually, I could live with embarrassing the church, but was deathly afraid of doing something so stupid that I would forever be branded as “that idiot in the parking lot.”
But then I thankfully remembered that I had no feelings and was hardly ever embarrassed. And so the butterflies were beaten back like baleful banshees of bucolic blackness. I don't think bucolic belongs before blackness but I believe I'll leave it behind.
I met the other men of the parking detail and we were given our equipment. Yea, verily I say unto you, our EQUIPMENT. Men hearken for equipment and badges and gear and uniforms to fit in and be part of a team. And since last I checked (this morning) I am a man, I hearkened for all of the above. And so on the eighth day God said, “I shall make a parking detail and I will give them mighty weapons and tools to use for my people. And they shall light the way and make clear the paths.” And it was so and God said, “That is good.”
First my vest. Not just any vest folks, heavens to mergatroids no. Now some would look at the vest and say, “So what, it’s just yellow plastic with Velcro and some reflecting tape.” And to those unworthy cretins I would say no, wrong you are, so wrong. You shall never wear this vest chosen for God’s chosen parking people. Which means he won't choose you, so park it and listen up.
My vest was beautiful, but I noticed that Harry looked much better in his vest than I did in mine. He looked sharp, while I looked like a penguin wearing a vest three sizes too small. So I did the only right thing and whined about it. Harry promptly took off his obviously oversized vest and traded with my tiny shrunken little vest. We looked exactly the same as before, proving that the vests were uni-sized and I was larger than Harry. Just more for God to love people, more to love.
All was forgotten as I received my Walkie-Talkie. And not just any Walkie-Talkie, but a “working” one. That is one that works with batteries and stuff. I spent a good part of the day saying random things on the walkie talkie. Like telling Jerry I had never felt closer to him even though we were at opposite ends of the parking lot. Parking lot man love logic.
Since we were all wearing Santa hats, I shared how Santa did not appear at the manger until well after the shepherds had left. This fact is left out in the Bible, but I have always felt it must be true in my heart and perhaps in my gall bladder. So I shared it over the radio and heard the silence of the tears the men were weeping over the idea of Santa coming to visit the baby Jesus with a sleigh full of bodacious toys. Either that or they just didn’t know what to say…
And then there was the light saber. To some it was just a lighted parking wand, but I knew the full potential hidden within. Taking it in my hand for the first time, I held if up and felt the surge of electricity shoot down my arm as I yelled, “The force is with me!” Turns out there was a short in my light saber, but we fixed it.
Armed with instructions, light saber, vest and Santa hat, we marched out to our allocated spots. My hallowed ground as the midfielder was way back in the lot. I was the man that waved them forward after Jerry had met them and waved them through after inspecting their trunks and undercarriages for leftover presents, weapons and fruitcakes, the edible type or the two-legged type. I was their hope and salvation as they looked into the darkness with no clue where to park or even why they were there. I gave them hope and salvation. I was the drive by church for them at that moment, the incarnational Jesus with a light saber.
I frantically waved them forward, using the proven first century method of “come to me” where the wand and the other hand is thrown down and then up and “over the shoulder.” Jesus used this method to bring the really big crowds to him, using wands powered by the holy spirit instead of batteries. Environmentally friendly.
Once they came the real artistry began. Here was where all my dreams came true. Because as they approached my position, I would wave them over into the lot. But not just any wave, oh no. Style and panache, cute and cuddly, brave and soldier-like, silly and clown-like. Knowing which style to pull from the bag for any given car was part of the plan. Behind the back, under the leg, down on one knee, hitting it out of the park homerun, the pitching wedge. I melded with the driver and knew just what to give them from my blacktop stage.
Never pull out cute and cuddly for a Mercedes 560 SL. Nor shoot a salute to young kids in a pimped out Volkswagen Beetle. Its all about knowing the right thing to do all the time for each person. I was ALIVE and thrived in the moment as each person in each vehicle saw me and thought to him or herself, “what a fine American.” And so I was, there in the parking lot for the 3:00 and 5:00 services on Christmas Eve at Spring Branch Church. It was a magical affirmation of my life, another goal achieved, another moment to remember and cherish. I'm not ashamed to say I cried nearly the entire time, though it could have been sweat.
I put so much into this job that God assigned me, I nearly fell asleep in church. But I rallied and returned home to write this story and others. That was when I realized my wrist hurt, and that I was dealing with a pretty serious case of Carpel Tunnel Syndrome. My amazing light saber had done a deadly deed on my wrist and just typing was now a hardship. Ack, the things we suffer to do God’s will! To be a parking detail soldier meant to give your all and I did.
But that was not all the damage that had been done. I had lost ten pounds by standing and jumping and pumping the cars into place. My right bicep was tired and torn from the constant beating it had endured as I stood so brave and alone on the blacktop. Even now as I write this it pulses and throbs and is twice the size of my other arm, making me another buffed out Fiddler Crab Midfielder of the parking detail.
Last night I dreamed of parking cars in a giant church parking lot, my light saber sending out huge beams of light that could be seen for miles. Cars came to my beacon like moths to a flame as I stood twenty feet tall, amazing and huge, reliving the dream that had been lived hours before on the hardtop of my church.
In the end I was once again reminded of how good my life is and how God uses me all the time in ways that fulfills all my Manly Desires. Once again I was reminded that it is good to be a man.
Yesterday was a big day for me, a day I had been waiting for a long time. Like walking by a construction site and the guy driving the giant Caterpillar Destructo Excavator invites me over to drive his rig for an hour or two. One brother to another.
No need to worry, he would of course give me the requisite fifteen minutes of hands-on training needed to be an immediate expert with the various hand and foot controls. After completely destroying the two stories of new construction that did not need to be destroyed, I would then drive the Excavator out onto Atlantic Avenue where complete strangers would randomly flag me down to come and destroy their million dollar homes.
Man food of the mind, folks, a veritable banquet.
Yesterday I fulfilled one of my Man Hopes to be on the parking detail at Spring Branch Church. I had been invited to help before but for various reasons had not been able to help. Perhaps I had stubbed my toe or drank too many cups of joe or didn’t want to make it so. Or perhaps I merely had contained my Manly Needs in this area.
Whatever the case, last week I was once again invited by Jerry Gallinedes – whose name might as well be Greek its so hard to spell – to help with the parking detail and, giving in to the inevitable, I agreed. Soon the list was passed around by way of email and there for all to see, my name appeared next to an amazing title: Midfielder. To say I was excited would be to say that a dog was excited to find a large steak bone recently grilled with two days worth of meat left on it. Of COURSE the dog was excited, as was I; my tail was wagging.
Here at last my name was written in the Parking Hall of Fame, and as yet I had done nothing. Even so, they knew who I was. I counted for something and felt my pride expand within me like helium engorging the blimp that would soon soar over the little people crawling so slowly down below. Not that there’s anything wrong with little people.
I showed up at the proper time and already the butterflies were raging inside of me. Not quite the pterodactyls of old that filled me prior to a world championship event or my first date, but still they flew within me. How would I do? Would I embarrass myself? Would I embarrass the church? Actually, I could live with embarrassing the church, but was deathly afraid of doing something so stupid that I would forever be branded as “that idiot in the parking lot.”
But then I thankfully remembered that I had no feelings and was hardly ever embarrassed. And so the butterflies were beaten back like baleful banshees of bucolic blackness. I don't think bucolic belongs before blackness but I believe I'll leave it behind.
I met the other men of the parking detail and we were given our equipment. Yea, verily I say unto you, our EQUIPMENT. Men hearken for equipment and badges and gear and uniforms to fit in and be part of a team. And since last I checked (this morning) I am a man, I hearkened for all of the above. And so on the eighth day God said, “I shall make a parking detail and I will give them mighty weapons and tools to use for my people. And they shall light the way and make clear the paths.” And it was so and God said, “That is good.”
First my vest. Not just any vest folks, heavens to mergatroids no. Now some would look at the vest and say, “So what, it’s just yellow plastic with Velcro and some reflecting tape.” And to those unworthy cretins I would say no, wrong you are, so wrong. You shall never wear this vest chosen for God’s chosen parking people. Which means he won't choose you, so park it and listen up.
My vest was beautiful, but I noticed that Harry looked much better in his vest than I did in mine. He looked sharp, while I looked like a penguin wearing a vest three sizes too small. So I did the only right thing and whined about it. Harry promptly took off his obviously oversized vest and traded with my tiny shrunken little vest. We looked exactly the same as before, proving that the vests were uni-sized and I was larger than Harry. Just more for God to love people, more to love.
All was forgotten as I received my Walkie-Talkie. And not just any Walkie-Talkie, but a “working” one. That is one that works with batteries and stuff. I spent a good part of the day saying random things on the walkie talkie. Like telling Jerry I had never felt closer to him even though we were at opposite ends of the parking lot. Parking lot man love logic.
Since we were all wearing Santa hats, I shared how Santa did not appear at the manger until well after the shepherds had left. This fact is left out in the Bible, but I have always felt it must be true in my heart and perhaps in my gall bladder. So I shared it over the radio and heard the silence of the tears the men were weeping over the idea of Santa coming to visit the baby Jesus with a sleigh full of bodacious toys. Either that or they just didn’t know what to say…
And then there was the light saber. To some it was just a lighted parking wand, but I knew the full potential hidden within. Taking it in my hand for the first time, I held if up and felt the surge of electricity shoot down my arm as I yelled, “The force is with me!” Turns out there was a short in my light saber, but we fixed it.
Armed with instructions, light saber, vest and Santa hat, we marched out to our allocated spots. My hallowed ground as the midfielder was way back in the lot. I was the man that waved them forward after Jerry had met them and waved them through after inspecting their trunks and undercarriages for leftover presents, weapons and fruitcakes, the edible type or the two-legged type. I was their hope and salvation as they looked into the darkness with no clue where to park or even why they were there. I gave them hope and salvation. I was the drive by church for them at that moment, the incarnational Jesus with a light saber.
I frantically waved them forward, using the proven first century method of “come to me” where the wand and the other hand is thrown down and then up and “over the shoulder.” Jesus used this method to bring the really big crowds to him, using wands powered by the holy spirit instead of batteries. Environmentally friendly.
Once they came the real artistry began. Here was where all my dreams came true. Because as they approached my position, I would wave them over into the lot. But not just any wave, oh no. Style and panache, cute and cuddly, brave and soldier-like, silly and clown-like. Knowing which style to pull from the bag for any given car was part of the plan. Behind the back, under the leg, down on one knee, hitting it out of the park homerun, the pitching wedge. I melded with the driver and knew just what to give them from my blacktop stage.
Never pull out cute and cuddly for a Mercedes 560 SL. Nor shoot a salute to young kids in a pimped out Volkswagen Beetle. Its all about knowing the right thing to do all the time for each person. I was ALIVE and thrived in the moment as each person in each vehicle saw me and thought to him or herself, “what a fine American.” And so I was, there in the parking lot for the 3:00 and 5:00 services on Christmas Eve at Spring Branch Church. It was a magical affirmation of my life, another goal achieved, another moment to remember and cherish. I'm not ashamed to say I cried nearly the entire time, though it could have been sweat.
I put so much into this job that God assigned me, I nearly fell asleep in church. But I rallied and returned home to write this story and others. That was when I realized my wrist hurt, and that I was dealing with a pretty serious case of Carpel Tunnel Syndrome. My amazing light saber had done a deadly deed on my wrist and just typing was now a hardship. Ack, the things we suffer to do God’s will! To be a parking detail soldier meant to give your all and I did.
But that was not all the damage that had been done. I had lost ten pounds by standing and jumping and pumping the cars into place. My right bicep was tired and torn from the constant beating it had endured as I stood so brave and alone on the blacktop. Even now as I write this it pulses and throbs and is twice the size of my other arm, making me another buffed out Fiddler Crab Midfielder of the parking detail.
Last night I dreamed of parking cars in a giant church parking lot, my light saber sending out huge beams of light that could be seen for miles. Cars came to my beacon like moths to a flame as I stood twenty feet tall, amazing and huge, reliving the dream that had been lived hours before on the hardtop of my church.
In the end I was once again reminded of how good my life is and how God uses me all the time in ways that fulfills all my Manly Desires. Once again I was reminded that it is good to be a man.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Two Pastors & an Earl
Last year we held our Christmas Party at the Church of the Messiah, because they loved us from Pastor Marty on down, and because they offered the space for free. One hundred and forty souls packed the fellowship hall with noise, happiness and food in great abundance. We tried to hold forth with great words and readings during the meal, but the mass of humanity and underpowered sound system reduced us to making unintelligible noises and grunts.
But no one cared and many understood because it was Capernaum, where agape reigned, whether you spoke Greek or not. All we knew was that we were with our family and life was good, at least during those moments we shared in our crazy love.
Afterwards we realized that we had outgrown Messiah and set out to find a new place to hold our Christmas Party in 2007. We considered halls of all kinds but the gates were shut, the doors bolted, and we did not find open hearts of grace but closed minds and locked doors that required us to wait and bide our time.
I really hate having to wait on the Lord…
Then Angela West rolled into our hearts and onto our staff and set out to obtain space in her church, First Baptist of Norfolk. She spoke with Pastor Jay who spoke with the Elders who spoke with Jesus himself apparently and the word was passed down from on high that the doors were to be opened for us. Paperwork was completed and promises made, meetings were held and the space was walked through and anointed.
God walked with us, as he always has.
Once again God provided for our bellies through our amazing parents. They brought plates and platters heaped with food and fixings that melted our mouths and reduced us all to drooling fools by the time the dinner bell was rung. A long line formed and snaked its way around the hall, moving forward with agonizing slug-like speed as conversations and dance moves were acted out all around.
Tara and I huddled together and realized that something on our program would have to give and so we cut out the testimonies of the kids that we had wanted to include along with Allen’s memorial video (Allen was a Sr. Leader with Cerebral Palsy) and tribute to his Mom, and short talks from our new friend Pastor Jay and our beloved Pastor Marty from Messiah. Ahhhh, to be blessed with not one but two pastors at our party was, uh, well…. a blessing!
Marty approached me and said, “John, I don’t need to speak.”
I looked at him, shaking my head and said, “Marty, we were blessed by having both you and Jay agree to speak, and so you will. It is important for them to hear from you because they know you.” I held up the revised schedule so he could see that we had shortened the program by removing the kid’s testimonies.
This didn’t go over well with my friend Marty.
“No, John,” he said. “You HAVE to have the kid’s testimonies. It is the most important thing for you to share. Let them speak instead of me.”
I just stared at Marty for a few beats and realized that God was speaking through this man and that he was absolutely right and Tara and I were absolutely wrong. There is great power in anyone giving any testimony about how God is working in their lives and this was no different with our friends from Capernaum. So I agreed and told the Club Leaders from Norfolk, Chesapeake and Virginia Beach to select kids to speak.
Meanwhile the show went on. We spoke about Allen, showed photos of him throughout the dinner, then showed a video about him and presented his Mom with a beautiful photo poster prepared by VB Club Leader Kari Lillard and signed by the multitude on hand.
Meanwhile God, the greatest matchmaker, mover and shaker and love maker I’ve ever known, was laughing as he continued to position Marty to give the talk he had been intended to give all along. Marty found himself standing next to Earl Roye, twin brother of Bobby and son of Tony and Cindy. Earl had always been the reluctant twin, the one that stayed home and wasn’t so sure about Capernaum while Bobby threw himself into it like a lost bee finding the hive after a storm. Home at last.
But just because he didn’t go to Capernaum did not mean that Earl was unaware of God and was lacking spiritual awareness.
After greeting each other, Earl and Marty watched the video about Allen. Earl looked over at Marty and asked, “Is Allen in heaven?”
Marty recognized God’s hand at work and that another connection was being made between him, the Pastor, and this man called Earl. He said, “Yes he is, Earl, because Allen had accepted Jesus as his savior and had a relationship with him.”
“Oh,” said Earl, and turned to watch the rest of the video while Marty watched Earl, waiting for the holy spirit to guide him.
“Earl,” said Marty, “if you died today do you think you would be in heaven with Allen?”
“No,” said Earl, “I don’t think so. I don’t really understand how it works.”
“Well,” said Marty, “Would you like me to tell you how it works?”
“Yes I would,” said Earl who, like his twin brother, was always concise and to the point with his answers.
And so the Pastor told the Earl about Jesus, how he came to show us how to live, to teach us how to live and love and die. Who sacrificed himself, gave his life for us so that we could live forever on earth and in heaven. Who came back to life after he died to prove how he controls life and death. Who invites us all to eat with him and come into our lives to be our savior, our God, our Lord and our friend.
Earl pondered this in quiet contemplation for a while, then announced that he was going out to walk for a while. Marty let him go and then followed him a short while later. He walked with Earl and then asked him if he was ready to make a decision for Jesus. Earl said yes and so they did, there in the church foyer while the party continued in the hall and Pastor Jay came to the stage to speak.
To say he was unprepared for our loud and boisterous crowd of kids with disabilities, along with friends and families, would be an understatement. Jay began to tell a story and the crowd was so noisy I had to quiet them and remind them that Jay was talking about Jesus, who deserved our respect and attention. Once both were given, Jay proceeded to tell a lovely story to the nearly two hundred souls in attendance.
While out in the foyer another story was given and words spoken by the Earl to his God, with help and guidance by the good Pastor Marty, who gave up his spot on stage so that he could be part of God’s dressing room to welcome the Earl to his new kingdom.
And so on that night two Pastors told stories about Jesus to friends new and old, while God rode his chariot across the sky to pick up the heart of an Earl.
But no one cared and many understood because it was Capernaum, where agape reigned, whether you spoke Greek or not. All we knew was that we were with our family and life was good, at least during those moments we shared in our crazy love.
Afterwards we realized that we had outgrown Messiah and set out to find a new place to hold our Christmas Party in 2007. We considered halls of all kinds but the gates were shut, the doors bolted, and we did not find open hearts of grace but closed minds and locked doors that required us to wait and bide our time.
I really hate having to wait on the Lord…
Then Angela West rolled into our hearts and onto our staff and set out to obtain space in her church, First Baptist of Norfolk. She spoke with Pastor Jay who spoke with the Elders who spoke with Jesus himself apparently and the word was passed down from on high that the doors were to be opened for us. Paperwork was completed and promises made, meetings were held and the space was walked through and anointed.
God walked with us, as he always has.
Once again God provided for our bellies through our amazing parents. They brought plates and platters heaped with food and fixings that melted our mouths and reduced us all to drooling fools by the time the dinner bell was rung. A long line formed and snaked its way around the hall, moving forward with agonizing slug-like speed as conversations and dance moves were acted out all around.
Tara and I huddled together and realized that something on our program would have to give and so we cut out the testimonies of the kids that we had wanted to include along with Allen’s memorial video (Allen was a Sr. Leader with Cerebral Palsy) and tribute to his Mom, and short talks from our new friend Pastor Jay and our beloved Pastor Marty from Messiah. Ahhhh, to be blessed with not one but two pastors at our party was, uh, well…. a blessing!
Marty approached me and said, “John, I don’t need to speak.”
I looked at him, shaking my head and said, “Marty, we were blessed by having both you and Jay agree to speak, and so you will. It is important for them to hear from you because they know you.” I held up the revised schedule so he could see that we had shortened the program by removing the kid’s testimonies.
This didn’t go over well with my friend Marty.
“No, John,” he said. “You HAVE to have the kid’s testimonies. It is the most important thing for you to share. Let them speak instead of me.”
I just stared at Marty for a few beats and realized that God was speaking through this man and that he was absolutely right and Tara and I were absolutely wrong. There is great power in anyone giving any testimony about how God is working in their lives and this was no different with our friends from Capernaum. So I agreed and told the Club Leaders from Norfolk, Chesapeake and Virginia Beach to select kids to speak.
Meanwhile the show went on. We spoke about Allen, showed photos of him throughout the dinner, then showed a video about him and presented his Mom with a beautiful photo poster prepared by VB Club Leader Kari Lillard and signed by the multitude on hand.
Meanwhile God, the greatest matchmaker, mover and shaker and love maker I’ve ever known, was laughing as he continued to position Marty to give the talk he had been intended to give all along. Marty found himself standing next to Earl Roye, twin brother of Bobby and son of Tony and Cindy. Earl had always been the reluctant twin, the one that stayed home and wasn’t so sure about Capernaum while Bobby threw himself into it like a lost bee finding the hive after a storm. Home at last.
But just because he didn’t go to Capernaum did not mean that Earl was unaware of God and was lacking spiritual awareness.
After greeting each other, Earl and Marty watched the video about Allen. Earl looked over at Marty and asked, “Is Allen in heaven?”
Marty recognized God’s hand at work and that another connection was being made between him, the Pastor, and this man called Earl. He said, “Yes he is, Earl, because Allen had accepted Jesus as his savior and had a relationship with him.”
“Oh,” said Earl, and turned to watch the rest of the video while Marty watched Earl, waiting for the holy spirit to guide him.
“Earl,” said Marty, “if you died today do you think you would be in heaven with Allen?”
“No,” said Earl, “I don’t think so. I don’t really understand how it works.”
“Well,” said Marty, “Would you like me to tell you how it works?”
“Yes I would,” said Earl who, like his twin brother, was always concise and to the point with his answers.
And so the Pastor told the Earl about Jesus, how he came to show us how to live, to teach us how to live and love and die. Who sacrificed himself, gave his life for us so that we could live forever on earth and in heaven. Who came back to life after he died to prove how he controls life and death. Who invites us all to eat with him and come into our lives to be our savior, our God, our Lord and our friend.
Earl pondered this in quiet contemplation for a while, then announced that he was going out to walk for a while. Marty let him go and then followed him a short while later. He walked with Earl and then asked him if he was ready to make a decision for Jesus. Earl said yes and so they did, there in the church foyer while the party continued in the hall and Pastor Jay came to the stage to speak.
To say he was unprepared for our loud and boisterous crowd of kids with disabilities, along with friends and families, would be an understatement. Jay began to tell a story and the crowd was so noisy I had to quiet them and remind them that Jay was talking about Jesus, who deserved our respect and attention. Once both were given, Jay proceeded to tell a lovely story to the nearly two hundred souls in attendance.
While out in the foyer another story was given and words spoken by the Earl to his God, with help and guidance by the good Pastor Marty, who gave up his spot on stage so that he could be part of God’s dressing room to welcome the Earl to his new kingdom.
And so on that night two Pastors told stories about Jesus to friends new and old, while God rode his chariot across the sky to pick up the heart of an Earl.
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