Sometimes angels sing

I work with a guy named Joey. Born and raised in Mt. Vernon, New York. I think I called him George for the first month that I worked with him. Not sure if it was my lack of hearing or his lack of pronunciation, but the name George entered my head for some reason on that first day. I felt so lame when I asked the manager of the shop if I should check with George about something and he looked at me funny and asked “who’s George?” Hey, its hard keeping track of names in a new environment right? Anyway, Joey works in the paint room, spending the day painting and finishing cabinets, putting all the finishing touches on our work. He has his own little room in the back corner of the shop where he spends time with paint fumes and a radio blaring the best of southern gospel. He has been on a southern gospel trip lately, so we have had the privilege of hanging with the Gaithers, Gold City, Imperials, and Cathedrals. Those aren’t new names to me, as my father loves southern gospel music, and I grew up hearing those tunes flood the house daily. The first day that Joey played that station, my mind went scrambling back to those days, when my father would play his southern gospel music and walk around the house, waiving his arm like a chorus conductor and singing along. Occasionally throughout the day we hear Joey singing along with the radio, going for the high notes and all. All of us at the shop stop for a second, look at each other, and chuckle under our breath. A round of smiles all around.

I park beside Joey almost everyday, and when I get out of my car, my eyes always fall on the little white new testament that sits on his front seat. He goes out there and reads during his breaks and for lunch. And everyday, like clockwork, there is Joey, singing his songs. I’ve been meaning to ask Joey where he gets his joy, but I think I already know the answer.


I’m not exactly sure what the role of angels are in this world, but if I’m right, sometimes angels sing.

Thanks for singing Joey. The world is now brighter.

I remember

Today, memories of all sorts were flooding my mind while I was busy at work.  Random ones, many from elementary school.  I like memories.  A point in time that is infused in my heart.  Though many of my memories aren't good, I have many that are, and they total up to who I am today.  

I remember...

....being in Miss Hatton's sixth grade class.  She was a nice teacher, prone to smiles and good cheer, really only getting mad once in a while at the class clown.  It was during the days of Nancy Reagan's drug education program called "DARE".  Remember that?  If you don't, just go to any thrift store and look through the t-shirt section and you are bound to find a t-shirt adorning her mantra.  Anyways, on this day, we all received a red DARE ribbon to put on our backpacks.  They were poorly made and had little red frays at each end of the ribbon. If you pulled just a little bit, you could pretty much just destroy the ribbon, leaving just a pile of red thread.  Well, a few of the guys in class figured this out and proceeded to destroy their ribbons.  When Miss Hatton saw those poor little ribbons all shredded up, she was infuriated!  Now I had pulled a few threads out of my ribbon, but so little that my ribbon still looked intact, but enough to have a decent pile of thread.  Miss Hatton screamed at the two culprits and then posed the question, "Is there anyone else involved?"  Well I was scared to death, so I sure as heck was not going to raise my hand.  But before I could even think, Kurt Miller, who was sitting next to me, reached slowly into my desk, pulled out my clump of thread, and raised it towards the sky, for all the class to see.  Miss Hatton looked at me as if I had just dropped the f bomb out of my little elementary mouth and with all the fury she could muster, screamed at me to get out in the hall.  I can't remember what happened after that, but I will never forget the way I felt when she looked at me with her big brown eyes and screamed at me.  Thanks Kurt.

....going through a phase that same year of loving everything baseball.  Baseball this and baseball that.  I had a whole crew of friends who all shared my passion, and it would consume our conversations.  One day I brought in my mint condition Mike Schmidt baseball card.  The pride of the Phillies and my collection.  My baseball loving "friend" asked me to see the card.  I gently handed it to him.  He looked at it for a while and then, as if I wasn't watching, slowly put the card under his desk and proceeded to bend it completely in half.  He then handed it back to me as if nothing had happened.  Now if you know anything about baseball cards, you know that a baseball card with a crease in it is rendered worthless.  I was mad, but I didn't do anything about it.  This is the earliest memory that I have of me not standing up for myself.  I asked him why he did it and he insisted that he didn't.  And I left it at that. But man, I was sad....

I'm still not sure why these memories were living in my mind today.  They are random and from another time in life that has been long past.  Maybe it's that still small voice telling me to stand up for myself, or maybe it's saying "your sins will find you out".  I'll have to think about that for a while.  It's hard work processing memories, or scars, or joys.  Whatever you want to call them, I  am thankful that the lines on the road are still comming.

The word of the day is a conjugation of remember and memories.  Rememberies.  Go make some.

World Spin On!

So this was my new years resolution, but as you can see time has kind of gotten away from me, and the year is not so new anymore.  Days seem to come and go, leaving me to wonder at them, all the while I'm filling them with work or some other use of time.  But I'm tired of wasting days away. Of putting things off until tomorrow, when they could be done today.  If there was a crown for this I think it would be on my head.  These words find you after a long battle with apathy and an oppression on my heart that has been hard to find freedom from.  It seems the things that I love to do  are often accompanied by the hovering of a cloud, as if to keep me from doing them.  To make me run instead of embrace these things that make me come alive.  But as they say, nothing good ever comes easily.

So tonight I'm doing what can be done today, and this is it. Words meet page.   My outlet to the world.  After much pondering and many spins of the world, I've finally resolved myself to start taking time each day to do something I really like to do.  Writing is an outlet for me that I don't often use.  It helps me to process the world and my place in it.    I'm not too sure what I'm going to write about, but if I'm correct, each day is a story of its own.  And no matter what unfolds or where this leads, I'll try my best to capture my thoughts, weaknesses, understandings, and misunderstandings, all with the intent of somehow pulling us all closer to the answers to the questions that live in our minds. 

 And as the world spins on, day after day, as words and story find their way here, it is my prayer that Truth would be revealed.  That it would find its way into our being and fill the cracks of these broken vessels.  And thus this journey begins.  Not knowing where to step, but trusting that light will break in and reveal the path.  And your invited, because I can't do this on my own!

  Give light to my eyes!