Tag: faith issues

Love, Joy & Miracles; Day 2

On the second day of Christmas: The continuation of the short story, The Miracle Man.

Wendell reaches The Commons of Villa Velencia and stops to get his bearings. In the center of the large room is a big-screen TV. The faithful huddle on sofas and loveseats to watch the morning game show. Scattered about the TV are sitting areas where other members gather. Some play cards. Some read. Some converse.

For the most part, he acknowledges, Villa Velencia lives up to its claims: elegance and amenities for those who can afford it. But there are some things not even money can disguise… He braces himself before checking on the cluster sitting in a shadowed corner. “…or change.”

They are phantoms of themselves; minds melting like wax near a flame. One entertains invisible guests; a petite woman hurls vulgarities; one man rocks back and forth incessantly. The others stare into space with eyes frosted over like panes of glass against a deep frost.

“Retirement villa,” he muses. Look at us! We’re like elephants in that Tarzan movie marching to a waterfall to die.

 “Good morning, Wendell!”

 He turns his attention to the feminine voice.

Ruth Tucker: South wing; husband passed some time ago; nice woman; attractive smile…

Her eyes twinkle with child-like exuberance, and for a split second, Wendell gets a glimpse of her when she was twenty. His emotions flair; he looks away to regain his composure.

“Are you going to join us?” She pulls her shawl close. “The shuttle is leaving soon for the mall.”

 He notes the white microbus warming up outside the glass doors. Snow dusts the tinted windows.

 “Why in blazes would I want to go to the mall?”

 “Because it’s almost Christmas!”

“Oh yeah, ‘the most wonderful time of the year.’ We buy things we don’t need for those we don’t like, and churches visit us to ease their conscience. Or is it to appease an angry God? Never mind, the fact is we’re alone 11 months like Tarzan’s elephants and…”

He catches himself, and despite his tirade, Ruth is all smiles. “I’m sorry. I must sound like Scrooge.”

She pulls her hand out from beneath her shawl and pats his forearm. “No need to apologize: I’m used to your moods. Should you change your mind, we’d love to have you tag along. Might do you good.”

She turns to join the others gathering near the doors. They spot him and wave him over. He ignores them and heads for the table holding hot beverages.

Who Needs A Friend?

People Who Need People

The older I get the more I appreciate my friends. They’ve stood beside me when others have walked away. They’ve listened when others preached. But they also risked our relationship to tell me the hard stuff about myself or the situation I was in. It’s one thing to hear the truth. It’s another to accept, embrace, and change. Sometimes I listened. And then there were the other times…

Together is Better

Sherlock had Watson. The Lone Ranger had Tonto. Batman had Robin. They were inseparable. Can you even imagine one without the other?  As a writer, I wanted to create a similar bond between the main characters in Tears of Min Brock.  I drew from my own experiences (the good, the bad, the ugly) to add color and depth  so they seemed lifelike. At least that was my intent. 🙂

So here’s hoping you have a few friends to share life with and who love you, warts and all! 🙂

The following is the “FREE” post of Tears of Min Brock, Chapter 2

“Can’t you see?” Elabea said, her voice full of emotion. “If we cannot read, how can we discern true stories from false? You’ve taught us that Claire was destroyed in the war. But doesn’t this parchment tell otherwise?”

Mithe stepped between Elbea and the mob.

“Then allow me to tell you a short story,” Mithe countered, her saggy cheeks wobbling back and forth. “Long ago, during the Dark War, we received parchments just like the one you’re holding. My husband and two sons journeyed to Claire to answer the invitation, as did your father. They were made warriors and began to fight along side the King of Claire.

“In a great battle at Min Brock, the men of Allsbruth were trapped and outnumbered. The Ebonites destroyed them with no mercy, butchering them upon the Gilden Plains! My husband! My sons!! Killed for what? For a parchment from the…” She stopped before her tongue spoke the forbidden name. “He, the one who sent the parchments, did nothing to help, and they died like dogs!”

Mithe enjoyed the pain and distress her words were causing Elabea. She continued her story.

“Your father has never told you his tale, has he?”

Elabea shook her head.

Mithe snickered.

“Quinn, the mighty leader of Hetherlinn, has never told you why he and Gundin were the only survivors of Min Brock?”

Elabea’s eyes became as big the moon. She bit her lip to quell the tears.

“Ah!” Mithe gloated. “Evidently not! Then here is the truth: Your father is a coward! He betrayed us all! Your father and Gundinshould be dead! Not our men! Not my men!

“Now get rid of that cursed parchment before we do it for you!”

The mob rushed forward.

“STOP!”

The voice came from the shadow of a tree behind cottage Number 7. Galadin emerged from the shade and stood beside Elabea.

“Look at this!” the widow snapped, her long finger wiggling at Galadin like a serpent. “Behold the son of Gundin. The greatest warrior to ever walk Hetherlinn! Where is your father now, boy?”

Galadin stiffened his back and glared at her. “Leave Elabea alone! Go back to your worries!”

Mithe continued undeterred. “I’ll tell you where your father is! Mad he is, lost in his old dreams! You’re the son of a madman, Galadin! One day, you’ll join his insanity!”

Galadin’s eyes became slits of rage but he held his tongue. He leaned close to Elabea and whispered, “Let’s get out of here before they charge us.”

She took his hand and he led her toward his cottage, all the while keeping an eye on the unruly crowd. They continued to hurl threats and curses, and even threw stones.

Where’s My Antacid??

Performing on Prime Time Country; circa 1995.
Performing on Prime Time Country; circa 1995.

I’m often asked, “Did you get stage fright before a concert or performing on live TV?”

“Nope,” would be my answer.

Sure, I got butterflies and cited my “just-don’t-screw-up” mantra, but all-in-all, I thrived in such settings. Honest.

Now ask me the same question in regards to being in my own videos! I’m proud of how they turned out, and I’m eternally grateful to Matt Giesler who donated his talent, but now I’M the focal point (gulp!)

I can’t hide behind my bass and sunglasses!

So here they are. I wanted them to be short, entertaining and informative.

The Storyteller

Story Behind the Story

Bass, Tours & Castles

Feel free to share, throw tomatoes, snicker, etc.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve gotta go find my antacid!

Missing You…

BWD Kitchen
One of Tom’s remodeled kitchens

I’m taking a break from posting about writing books in order to jot about something of more importance.

Friendship.

I didn’t know Tom that well (not his real name,) but we immediately connected. Perhaps it was because we were both retired dinosaurs from the music biz; he, the drummer, and I, the bassist. Maybe it was how we were wired: artistic, perfectionist men prone to depression.

Funny thing is, I didn’t realize Tom struggled with depression until I was at his funeral. As friends and family paid homage, the topic was discussed, and I quickly realized that those closest to Tom were unaware of how dark his last days were. Suddenly, depression wasn’t a laughing matter.

To this day, I’m still shocked Tom took his life. As a designer, he was stellar. Take a look at the picture above. Pure artistry! The man was winning awards left and right. In regards to business, he was professional, expected the best, and delivered beyond a client’s expectations.

And yet, he was troubled.

His wife called me the other day to get tax information. Pain still tinged her voice. Christmas must have been hell. I did my best to console her without reopening wounds. I offered her any business help I could and told her I would continue to pray for her, their son, daughter-in-law, and grandson. Not much of an answer to one with so many unanswered questions. But I had to say something. I had to connect.

Like most survivors of suicides, I wondered if there was something I could have done differently to save Tom’s life. Did I miss the sadness behind a joke? Was his serious demeanor due to business woes or something worse?

To be honest, I know there was nothing I could have done. Our relationship was only business and we’d only known each other for a few months. Judging by the comments after the funeral, no one saw this coming. And yet, I still wonder, and wonder, and wonder…

So what’s my point?  If you’re like me, my life is way too fast. I spend too much time maintaining shallow relationships on social media only to discover I’m loosing touch with my humanity, as well as my real friends.

So this morn, let me prescribe the following…

To those of us who struggle with depression, step away from social media and go have coffee with a friend. Listen to what they’re saying, to what they’re not saying, and then share your heart.

Laugh. Cry. Smile. CONNECT.

For those of you who don’t battle the “black dog,” get out of social media and go have coffee with a friend. Listen to what they’re saying, and to what they’re not saying…

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a phone call to make.

I need to have lunch with a friend.

Dave Matthews Band and A Boy With His Dream

Anonymous Kitchen

As a house painter, I spend a lot of time in other people’s homes.  Although I’m not a sociologist, my years of painting have shown me that the timeless adage is true: the kitchen is the heart of the family.  And in my humble opinion, the epicenter is the refrigerator.  With just a glance, I can learn a lot about a family.  Pictures tell me who they love, what they value, and where they vacation.  Magnets indicate which sports team they cheer, what mechanic they deem trustworthy, or who is their orthodontist.  Report cards, funny drawings, quirky cartoons…all but a facet of a family’s DNA.

Today’s blog is about a typical day on the job that quickly became extraordinary.  I’ve changed the names of the family for anonymity purposes, and the quotes are from memory, but the heart of the story (as well as the organization and band) is spot on.  I hope you’ll be as touched as I was…

I stare at the photo.   I’ve been in their home now for two days and have seen the picture regularly.  You can’t miss it: positioned prominently on the refrigerator and printed on a sheet of computer paper.  But despite the colors being a bit grainy, the celebrity in the photo is very recognizable.

“Is that Dave Matthews?” I ask Susan, the homemaker.

“Yes.”  She beams with motherly pride.

My eyes sweep across the picture.  To the left of Dave is the guitarist and off to the right their drummer.  And although Dave is the focal point of the photograph, my eyes zero in on the drummer and more specifically, his beaming smile.  It’s then that I notice his arm draped over a teenage boy’s shoulder.  He too is smiling, but it appears masked.  Eyes are shadowed and his countenance is gray, perhaps even pale.  Maybe it’s a result of the computer’s printer.  But something deep inside tells me otherwise.

“The Make-A-Wish Foundation contacted us,” Susan offers as if reading my mind, “and asked Shaun what he wished for.  He told them that he wanted to go to a Dave Matthews concert.  So they flew him to Madison Square Gardens to see the show.”

Silence.  Reverence.  Questions loom, but all are none of my business.

“What an awesome experience!” I reply, and although I’m sincere, my words are shallow in comparison to the moment.  In an effort to offer her a worthier reply, I add: “Meeting the band after the NY show must have been a dream come true.”

“Actually, he didn’t,” Susan corrects, relishing the opportunity to share the story about her son.  “That photo was taken upstairs.”

My eyes jump back to the images.  Sure enough, I recognize the bonus room pictures in the background.  Aghast, and obviously not making the connection, I flash her a bamboozled expression.

“After the NY show, Dave learned we were there and informed Make-A-Wish that had he known, he would have met with us.  So when the band was scheduled to perform nearby, Make-A-Wish asked us if Shaun would like to come to the show and meet the band.” She savors the memory, letting its sweetness join her smile before fanning across her face. “Naturally, we said, ‘Yes!’”

She pauses and her expression shifts delicately, like daylight fading at dusk.  “But when it came time for the concert, he was too sick to go.”

I find myself studying Shaun.  Now I understand his muted smile, noting how the chemo robbed him of his color, and that his fight with cancer landed the dark circles around his eyes.

My heart aches.

Susan continues.  “And then his manager called asking if it would be okay if they came by after the show.”  Her smile is back, the memory delightful once more.  “Sure enough, around midnight, two tour buses pulled up to our front door.  They stayed for about an hour.”

“You’re kidding?” I reply, amazed that a rock star would not only make a house call, but would take time to “hang.”

Susan nods, the memory anchoring her to her son.  “In fact, Make-A-Wish said in all their years of doing this, they’ve never known a celebrity to actually go to someone’s home.”

No doubt, I muse.

Her expression shifts; shadowy fingers trace dark lines across her face.  “Several days later, Dave called personally to see how Shaun was doing.”  Her eyes mist.  “I told him Shaun had died that morning.”

I feel myself sinking, lost in emotions too deep to traverse.  There is nothing left to say.  We take in the picture in silence, and then Susan turns to go about her day.  But I cannot let go of the photograph.  I marvel how it captures Shaun’s dream of just hanging out with his favorite band, being what he is suppose to be…a kid full of hope.

Shaun’s eyes tug at me.  Blasting through the darkness of his disease, fighting to be free forever, are prisms of light.  And shining within, I see what his family must see, and why the photo is displayed so prominently on their refrigerator.

Elation. Peace. Life.