Friends – Rizzo's Rambles and Ruminations

$19.78 Was a Very Good Year

This morning, I was in the drive through at McDonald’s picking up a breakfast order that cost $19.78. Normally on Sundays, I eat breakfast at my church in the café between choir and band rehearsal and the morning worship service. The proceeds from the church café support our church outreach ministries, so it is a good way to support my church and not have to make breakfast early before I leave home. But this morning, we were not having choir and full band because the church facilities were already decorated for our upcoming Vacation Bible School. We have new children’s pastors, Jeremiah and Averill Johnson. They are already doing a great job. The decorations, something like a wilderness campsite, were amazing when I arrived for band rehearsal.

That’s right, I showed up for band rehearsal even though we were not having it! Why? Because our music pastor didn’t remind me! Nah, just kidding. He had mentioned it in a previous rehearsal and had sent a text reminder to the full music department. I had just not paid attention. That did not keep him from feeling bad and apologizing for not sending out an additional reminder. But it was entirely on me. Blaine Johnson, our music pastor, is a Nashville-based musician, but he is also one of our homegrown musicians who returned to us about a year ago to serve as our music pastor. He has a servant’s heart and truly felt bad about the morning mix up, even though it was my fault. (Two more quick things about Blaine. One, he is focusing a lot of attention on the horns and writing charts that are solid and idiomatic to the wind instruments. Yeah! Two, he took me backstage to meet Allison Krause, something for which I am eternally in his debt. Sigh.)

Anyway, since I was going to have extra time on my hands this morning, I decided to pick up breakfast early and run it back to the house where my kids – actually, the other adults who live at my house – were still getting ready. I prefer McDonald’s because I like its potato cakes, and since I was ordering breakfast, it did not matter if the ice cream machine was broken.

When the server said, “That will be 1978,” I quipped, “That was a very good year.” Yeah, I’m clever like that. My kids – the adults who live at my house – call that a dad joke.

The server responded, “I’ll bet things were cheaper then.”

My response, “Yeah, plus I was still in high school, living in my dad’s house.”

At that, he smiled, and I pulled to the next window to get my order.

As I did, I began to travel down what Robin Williams in Dead Poet’s Society calls “Amnesia Lane,” reflecting on 1978. As I pondered, I realized it was, indeed, a good year and one with more significance than my glib retort to the drive through server conveyed. What follows is my musings from this morning about the year 1978, the fruit of what Wordsworth calls the “spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings… recollected in tranquility” as I ate my sausage, egg and cheese biscuit and sipped my half and half tea.

1978 Anno Domini was the end of my sophomore year and the beginning of my junior year at Mortimer Jordan High School in Morris, Alabama. In January of that year, my family lived in unincorporated Jefferson County in a community called Masseyline where my father pastored a church where he preached and I played trumpet every Sunday morning and Sunday evening. If I remember correctly, it was around this time, likely in January, my birth month, when my dad purchased me a new trumpet. We went to 2nd Avenue, North, in Birmingham to Nuncie’s Music. The owner, Mr. LaBerte, waited on us himself. Nunzio “Nuncie” LaBerte founded the music store in 1946. Though he was our sales representative that morning, later Joe Hull would be the customer rep whom I would deal with while I was in high school, through college, and even decades later when my own children started band. Joe told me stories about Mr. LaBerte running out of the store office telling the sales reps not to extend more credit to the group Alabama. Of course, that was before Alabama became an overnight success after twenty years on the road. Anyway, that day in 1978, Mr. LaBerte did extend credit to us. Of course, he also charged us full sticker price.

Since then, I have learned to wheel and deal and purchase used horns. I now have around seventeen brass instruments (I lose track of exactly how many). But on that day in 1978, price did not matter. First, because my dad was paying for it. Second, and maybe even more importantly, because the horn was beautiful. It was a Vincent Bach Bb Stradivarius, ML 37, lacquer trumpet. When I opened the case, it had that new trumpet smell, which is something akin to a new car smell but infinitely more glorious. And the sound of the instrument was that characteristic dark tone that Bach’s from that era are known for. My dad, a non-musician, commented that even he could tell a difference in the sound between my Old’s beginner trumpet and the Bach. I still have the horn. For something like 40 years, it was my go-to instrument, and I played it indoors and outdoors all over the country with numerous college and church ensembles and not a few paying gigs. Though the finish is now more tarnish than lacquer and it sports a repair on the second valve slide by my college band director, Dr. David Walters, it is still an outstanding sounding horn and serves as a respectable backup to my new Yamaha Bergeron Model that I procured at a sweet price in 2020 from a dear friend, Scott Berry. (Sadly, Scott passed just a few years later.)

In the spring term of 1978, Phillip Renda was my band director at Mortimer Jordan. Renda, not Mr. Renda, just Renda, as we affectionally called him, was a also a trumpet player and a Jacksonville State University graduate and was one of the primary reasons that I decided to audition for the Marching Southerners and major in music at JSU and when I graduated. He was a riot to be around, and I spent countless happy hours in the band room, on the practice field, and in the stands at football games under his direction, as well as private time talking with him and a small cadre of students in his office. I remember snippets from then. For example, we played “Kentucky 1800” in concert band. I recall he once asked his office entourage if we knew what pizz on a music score meant. I did. (Incidentally, it means to pluck with the fingers instead of bow the strings, for example, on a violin.)

Renda fostered my interest in music in a number of ways beyond the classroom. In 1978, along with a handful of other Marching Blue Devil band faithful, I attended a Chuck Mangione concert with Renda and his college buddy, Mike Jones. I still recall the concert. Mangione was in rare form. “Feels So Good” had been released on his album by the same name in 1977 and the single in 1978 and would ultimately reach number four on the Billboard Hot 100, no mean feat for a jazz (sort of) instrumental piece. I also remember that when we got to the concert hall in Birmingham, Renda and Mr. Jones could not find their tickets and had to buy more. (Weeks later, we found the tickets in his center desk drawer, though I am not sure he ever confessed this to Mr. Jones.) Seeing my interest in music, he loaned me his copy of Donald Jay Grout’s A History of Western Music, which was still the standard music history text when I started JSU two years later. I returned it to him, slightly worse for the wear thanks to our toy fox terrier, before he left Jordan in May or June of 1978. That’s right, he left Jordan in 1978.

My last memory of Renda at Jordan is standing in the band room with him and Mr. Trotter, the principal, as Renda named Tony Cousins band field captain and Vickie Nail and me co-drum majors. Tony was a drummer and one of the nicest and most popular guys in the band. We still see each other… at least on Facebook, and a few years ago I had the pleasure of teaching his daughter at my college. As for Vickie, she was the youngest of the Nail sisters, who were three of the prettiest girls ever to grace the halls of Mortimer Jordan. We had matching uniforms, except hers had a long skirt. Our shirts were bright white and silky (probably Rayon, something I had to Google) with matching blue neck kerchiefs, red cummerbunds, and Cavalier hats with long ostrich feathers dyed blue and red. My shirt, a bit faded from time, hangs in the back of my closet; the hat rests on a bust atop the bookshelf in my bedroom; and the cummerbund and kerchief are long lost – 1978 was some time ago, after all. As with Tony, my contacts with Vickie now are pleasant but mostly over Facebook.

I am also still in contact with Renda. We periodically message each other, and I love reading his Facebook posts about his Sicilian roots, something we share, his tributes to his mom and dad and his faith. He has retired from band directing… and come out of retirement more than once and continues to foster a love of music in his students. (He also passed the passion to his son, Stan, who is an outstanding director in his own right.) And Renda and I get to eat, reminisce, and play together at the Jacksonville State Southerners Alumni Reunion, and hopefully will do so again this coming November.

Back to 1978, after the school year ended my dad made a decision that is a testament to the type of man and father he was. It was time for him to change pastorates. He had two options: take a promotion that moved my family from the area and me away from Mortimer Jordan or accept a smaller church appoint that kept us in area and me in the same school district in order for me to be drum major. All I have to say is that summer I met my new band director… at Mortimer Jordan! (Thank you, Papa Bear.)

In the summer of 1978, Allen Bailey, also a JSU graduate, took the position of band director at Mortimer Jordan. Renda may have started the spark but Allen truly fanned the flame of my interest in music as a career. (Wow, that sounds cheesy, but it is true.) I do not remember all of the music from the fall of ’78, but I do recall we played Allen’s arrangement of Jenkins’ “American Overture for Band.” It was a great piece. But Allen did not just expose me to great music but to great performances. I rode him along with his then fiancé and now wife, Debbie, to Troy University to see the Marching Southerners. Of course, weather delayed us ; consequently, we only got there in time to see them march off the field after the halftime show. He also took me and another band friend with him and Debbie to a drum and bugle competition at Jacksonville State. That trip his car died in Anniston on the way home, so waiting for a garage to open the next day, we four spent a restless night at The Heart of Anniston Hotel. We paid the nightly, not hourly rate (enough said). Then when I was in the Southerners, he and Debbie ferried me to Birmingham to march in the Veteran’s Day Parade. That time a policeman stopped us as Allen pulled onto the Interstate. Come to think of it, traveling with Allen was frequently interesting.

After Vickie graduated, leaving me the lone drum major, Allen arranged for lessons with Gordon McGraw, the drum major at Jacksonville State. Once a week for I’m not sure how long, I hopped in Allen’s car, and we headed to Jacksonville. Fortunately, we did not get caught in a deluge, break down, or get stopped by the police. Gordon and his roommate, Tam Easterwood, were hilarious, and I benefitted greatly from the lessons. First-place competition medals packed away somewhere testify to this. And I have a couple of trophies, as well, thanks to Allen. He arranged solos for trumpet and accompanied me on the piano when I competed in Teen Talent, a talent competition sponsored by my denomination, when I competed at regional, state, and nationals. He also played for me when I auditioned for a music scholarship at JSU, though I did not get a scholarship. But that is OK. At the audition, he introduced me to Dr. Walters and Dr. Davis, two men who would also have a significant influence on my life.

Oh, there is one more trip I should mention. After the national Teen Talent competition in Dallas, Allen and I flew back to Alabama together. I stayed with him and Debbie for a few days. We raided my mom’s kitchen for any pot, pan, or ladle I wanted (something she still talks about); then he and Debbie moved me to Jacksonville in time for Southerner’s band camp, all because of 1978.

By the way, I call them Allen and Debbie instead of Mr. and Ms. Bailey because we became friends. I was honored to be Allen’s best man in their wedding. For years, he was the pianist at my dad’s church in Gardendale. For my parents, he was just another one their kids and was welcomed in their home like one. Symbolic of this relationship, Allen wore a tie my dad had given him to my dad’s viewing after he passed. He pointed this out as he hugged my mother. Finally, a few years back in a Facebook post, I complimented a former student on her success, saying how proud I was of her. Allen responded to my post and said that my expression of pride in my student was exactly the way he felt about me. Yeah, that was a lump in my throat moment. I am embarrassed to say that I do not contact Allen as much as I should, something that I thought about just a few days ago. It is time I did something about that.

I realize what began as a brief muse has turned into a long ramble. I do not apologize, but I will close. My memories of 1978, its seminal events and other special people, such as Noah White, Sarah Glover, Devin Stephenson, and Jerald and Marla Wilson, to name a few, continued to fill my thoughts Sunday. It is interesting what can trigger a flood of memories – the smell of freshly cut grass, the sound of a marching band, the glimpse of an old photograph on the mantle, or even the cost of breakfast at McDonald’s. We cannot live in the past, but visiting it is not a bad idea, especially when it spurs us to reach out in the present to the people who made the past special.

Gotta go, I have some folks to get back in touch with.

A Christmas Greeting Calligram and a Christmas Letter

Instead of a photo and a poem this Christmas, I got creative (maybe) and opted for a calligram, a visual image and poem in one. A calligram, sometimes called a concrete poem or visual poem, is poetry in which the arrangement of words creates a visual image, in this case a Christmas tree. The poem is comprised of Christmas greetings in numerous languages. Almost all the greetings are in languages that are spoken by my friends across the globe. But just for fun, I added an Anglo-Saxon greeting in runes, though I doubt Alfred the Great is going to read my poem. And I included Latin, you know, just in case the Pope does read it.

Additionally, I decided to share an old-fashioned Christmas letter. Back in the day, Christmas letters shared the news of the year and holiday greetings. I loved getting them, especially from my cousin Diane in Houston. Of course, Christmas letters have become a thing of the past since we share each other’s lives in real time on social media. At least, I know you guys see my antics online because you tell me about it. Anyway, here we go.

My family and I have had a blessed year, and I am grateful to God for his blessings. Olivia and Nicholas both graduated from Athens State University. Olivia and Emma, her traveling pal, headed to Korea for two weeks right after graduation to spend time with two special friends, Fred and Reneea, who serve at school in Pohang. When she returned, she accepted a position with the Marion County School System as a science teacher at Brilliant High School, where she is also the band sponsor. The job keeps her busy, but she seems to be doing well.

Nick, on the other hand, only drove to Jasper after graduation where he served as the Interim Director of the Walker County Arts Alliance for several month. Additionally, he is a social media manager for Blanton Media Group, the publisher of 78 Magazine and The Walker Leader. He is learning a lot about real-world application of the skills he attained at Athens. And just to round things out, he is working on an M.A. in Visual Communications. In fact, he just got his first grades – all A’s.

The extended family is doing well also. Mom is still sharp and sassy as ever, and all things considered, doing rather well. We are all excited about the latest addition to the Rizzo clan. My nephew Chase and his wife Britney had a baby boy, Martin Joseph Rizzo, in November. He is absolutely adorable! As you can imagine, we are all beside ourselves excited about Martin’s arrival.

Finally, our congregation is blessed as well. I cannot share everything, but I will mention two additions to the church this year. Blaine Johnson joined our ministry team this year as the music pastor. He is talented, motivated, and caring. The growth in both quantity and quality of our music ministry under his direction was apparent in our Christmas service. (Find it on Facebook or Youtube at Sumiton Church of God.) And Jonah Barrett has taken on a volunteer position of Young ACollege/Young Adult Pastor. I have known him since the day he was born and am so proud of the young man he has become. His late father, Reverend DeWayne Barrett, a dear friend of mine, would be proud of his son as well. For these and all God’s blessings, I am truly grateful.

To close, over the last few Christmases I have participated in a tradition where friends and I share recipes with each other. Last year, I shared a photocopy of my grandmother’s handwritten fruitcake cookie recipe. This year, I would like to share a Greek feta cheese dip called bouyourdi.

Ingredients:
Greek feta (Get the good kind in brine water, not the crumbled, dry feta.)
Tomatoes (It is so much better with fresh heirloom tomatoes, but even canned diced tomatoes will work.)
Peppers (Traditionally a sweet bell pepper is used, but I have used all kinds depending on what I have on hand, such as pepperoncini, roasted red peppers, etc.)
Ground oregano
Olive oil
Additional toppings can include olives and thinly sliced onions.

Directions:
Place the feta in a small baking dish. Layer the tomatoes and peppers on top. Add any additional toppings you wish. Sprinkle with oregano. I love oregano, so I use a lot. If you’re new to using oregano, start out with just barely more than enough to be seen. Drizzle with olive oil. Don’t be stingy with the oil.

Bake at 350 degrees for about forty-five minutes. At about fifteen minutes in, give it a stir to mix the ingredients. (If you’re impatient like I am, you can microwave it, but it tastes better baked slowly.) Feta cheese does not become stringy like most cheeses. Instead, it has a nice creamy consistency when melted.

Pair with pita bread or chips or a nice, toasted bread of your choice. It is great as an appetizer or a snack.

When I make bouyourdi, I am reminded of a visit to my dad’s family in Galveston something over twenty years ago. We met up with dad’s cousin Mary, better known as “Wee,” and decided to go to his cousin Sonny Martini’s place for lunch, unaware that Sonny had moved his restaurant. When we arrived, we found a new restaurant and its owner, a nice Greek gentleman, instead of Sonny. But that was OK. We spent the next hour or so chatting with each other and with him, talking about Greece and family (Dad’s grandmother was Greek) and enjoying slice after slice after slice of warm feta and olives.

That was one of those times that was just perfect for making a memory. And though Dad and Wee have both passed, I go back in my mind to that day and live it over with them. My hope is that you might make similar memories and enjoy a warm plate of bouyourdi with your family and friends.

Merry Christmas!

A Life of Influence

The impetus for this little flash of inspiration (at least I hope it is inspired) was a recent conversation with a friend and ministry colleague, but as Emerson wrote to Whitman, it also “had a long foreground” in my life’s experiences and in the distillation of ideas by many others. In mulling over what is to follow, I initially thought to title this piece leadership something or other. Truth be told, however, leadership positions are rare and not easily attained. But influence is something that we can develop regardless of our station or role. My proposition, then, is not how to lead but how to live a life of influence, which comes down to one, two, three… six.

ONE LIFE

There is only one of you. You have desires and dreams, and you have abilities and influence, maybe even amazing dreams and significant influence. Still, what you can do alone is limited. On the other hand, through healthy, meaningful, intentional relationships, what you can accomplish in conjunction with others is exponential.

Up front, I need to state an axiom. Two relationships, your relationship with God and your relationship with your family, must supersede the following. If they do, these relationships will invigorate and nourish what follows. If they do not, failure in one or both of these primary relationships will diminish and taint success in any other area of life.

We all have areas of interest and influence, whether you are the gardener or the president. (You might be surprised at which one has the greater sphere of influence. If you do not believe this, study the life of George Washington Carver.) Of course, there are exceptions to every rule. But I surmise the majority of us at most can successfully operate in only a very limited number of areas.

TWO SPHERES OF INFLUENCE

Consequently, I recommend that you select two spheres of influence, just two. These are areas where you have a passion, standing, and opportunity. These could be large and expansive or small and focused. Regardless, they must be realistic for where you are in your life.

There is a good chance you will discover that your two areas of interest are related but not synonymous per se. They might or might not be scalable over time. Likely one will be more important to you than the other. Do not be rigid, yet the more clearly you can enunciate your spheres the more you free yourself of the noise and clutter in your life.

This does not mean you do not have other areas of your life or concerns where you are tangentially or temporarily engaged. But these two areas will frame and focus who you are, where you primarily engage, and how much of your resources, the most precious of which is time, you allocate.

THREE GOALS

Develop up to three goals, no more, for each area. A goal must be concrete and measurable. While you might personally benefit from accomplishments in these areas, ultimately the more altruistic your motivation and goal, the greater your sense of accomplishment and fulfillment will be. (There is nothing wrong with having a feeling or sense of accomplishment and probably something wrong if you do not.)

Your goals are not set in stone. Some goals might be finite and, therefore, could be accomplished at some point. Your priorities could shift for any number of reasons, such as you gain more insight in an area or life in general. Spheres of influence could change, or your own life situation changes. Still, some goals might be perpetual and lifelong.

SIX PEOPLE

Finally, for each area select six people whom you are prepared to invest your life in to accomplish your goals. These can be mentors, mentees, or partners. (Sometimes the lines between these roles will blur.) You could discover there is overlap in the six in your spheres of influence, and you might never have six all at one time. Certainly, I do not mean find people to use to get what you want. Rather, these are relationships that you will cultivate and invest in over time. These are relationships that are mutually beneficial and nourishing. Outside of your relationships with God and your family, these people you select and relationships you develop will form and frame you over the course of your life more than you might imagine, so choose wisely.

Why six? Several reasons, but I will mention one. If you select six individuals in two spheres of influence, you have selected twelve people you value enough to invite into your life. If twelve was enough for Jesus, then it should be more than enough for you.

Mentors, partners, and mentees will come and go in your life for a myriad of reasons. Pastor Roger Daniel contacted me when he needed a six-month interim music pastor. Since then, a meaningful twenty-year friendship has followed. On the other hand, not too long ago I lost a dear friend through death. Only my father’s passing has left a bigger hole in my life than the loss of Randy Beck. Others come and go because of a change in vocation or location. Sometimes your priorities diverge. And sadly, some may leave you through betrayal or apostasy. When this happens, do not be surprised. After all, Jesus had Judas.

When you are young, if you are smart you will find mentors, people who are wiser, stronger, more developed, and better connected in your areas of interest. As you mature and develop, you should continue to have mentors, but you will also begin to make partners, men and women with like passions and complementary gifts and abilities. Of course, at some point you should find yourself in the role of mentor as well if you grow better, not just older. But what you should never do is find yourself alone. Stay engaged with people – your people.

To recap, put God, not ministry, first and family second in your life will align your overall priorities.

Limit yourself to two areas of significant interest or influence will guide you in allocating your resources.

Have clear and measurable goals will focus and direct your actions.

Engage a set of people with whom you intentionally engage will drive your calendar and multiply your effort.

Of course, none of this is a guarantee of success, but it will ensure a greater likelihood of success with reduced stress and decreased anxiety, byproducts of prioritizing and focusing the one life you have.

Sometimes Your Second Favorite Pastor’s Name is Harv

In the summer of 2021, my second favorite pastor resigned the pastorate of my home church to take another in Florida. I had known Victor Massey since we were young. Our fathers were ministers together, long before Victor became my second favorite pastor. I said he was my second favorite since my dad, Bucky Rizzo, was a pastor and will always be my favorite. But until August of 2021, Victor Massey was my second favorite.

Then my church had a rather lengthy pastoral search while Pastor Lane Sargent, one of our retired former pastors, served as our interim and my second favorite pastor for about ten months. During that time the deacons prayed to find God’s will for who our pastor should be. Different individuals in the congregation indicated they believed it was God’s will for this one or that one to be our pastor. Yet I do not believe God cares. I do not mean God is unconcerned, but having given us free will he provides us opportunities to make wise choices and will give us wisdom in the process according to James 1:5. I really do not see that there is scriptural support to indicate that God has one particular person selected for every pastoral position or most any other role in the church or government or community or anywhere else. The task is not to ascertain the elusive and secret will of God. Instead, scripture teaches that we are much more responsible for our decisions and the consequences of our choices than we might like, which is why we should pray for wisdom.

With that theological understanding, I prayed for wisdom and when the pastoral vote was taken, I voted for someone whom I felt met the scriptural guidelines of a pastor and would be a good match for our congregation. But that is not who was selected. Instead in March 2022, Harv Turner became my second favorite pastor. Along with Pastor Harv, his wonderful wife Kelley became a part of our church family. Shortly after, his father, a retired minister himself, and his mother joined the congregation. And we are working to entice his son, daughter-in-law, and daughter to move to Sumiton.

I like Pastor Harv, my second favorite pastor. He is personable and a tad high energy. Early on, I noticed that he calls the names of members of the congregation as he preaches. It is a rhetorical device to engage the congregation, a way to connect new faces with names, and sometimes just something fun to do. Mine was one of the names he called, and I began to rib him about it on social media, keeping a tally of how many times he mentioned me. He was good natured and played along.

Recently Pastor Harv ran into me at lunch on campus. (He tried to sneak away, but I caught him.) We shared a meal and a conversation, which ran the gamut. Partly we talked about his experiences as a pastor, his father’s, my father’s, and even mine as a past music pastor. My dad more than once said that pastoring should be one of the most enjoyable jobs in the world, but people – Christians – make it difficult. The Apostle Paul surely knew this, which is why in 1 Thessalonians 5:13 he admonishes “to esteem them [pastors and church leaders] very highly in love for the work’s sake. And be at peace among yourselves.” In the conversation with Pastor Harv, I alluded to this scripture. I try to follow it, though I know at times I have failed. But this is the way my favorite pastor raised me.

I certainly hope I demonstrate my love and respect for Pastor Harv, whether he calls my name in his sermons or not. But I think he will keep calling my name. If you are a believer and live in the area but do not have a pastor, come meet mine. His name is Harv. I think you would like him if you met him.

On the other hand, if you are not a believer you need a savior. His name is Jesus. I know he has been calling your name much longer and with deeper love than Pastor Harv has been calling mine. And you would love him if you met him.

39 Years Later

Sometimes – often – I wake up in the early hours of the morning and can’t go back to sleep. I listen to music from the early 80s and for a moment it’s 1980, and I’m a college freshman again. I’m in my little shotgun apartment in Jacksonville with the cold tile floor. It is early in the morning. I’m sleeping on the same bed I had as a kid, and the sun is peeking through the thin drapes in my bedroom. My parents are asleep or just starting their day 100 miles away, but they and my grandparents will be in the stands on the 30- yard line near the concession stand on Saturday. And it is time for me to head to Southerners band camp or Mason Hall to practice – or more likely to philosophize on the bench outside of Jerkyl’s office. (Jerkyl was a nickname for Dr. Jerald Davis.) John is there. Jeff is there. Lisa is there. For a split second we’re all there again.

And then it passes as fast as the last 39 years have.

The 80s music is still playing on an oldies station. But that split second when it was 1980 is over. This morning my father is far more than a hundred miles away. So is John. But, that’s ok. I know where they are. Mom is just down the street. My precious kids are down the hall asleep, and that’s very good. And it’s now. I enjoyed the visit and find myself in my melancholy 1980 from time to time.

But today, here and now, is good. Life isn’t as simple maybe. But my world is rich. In a few hours my kiddos will be stirring. I’ll get my achy back out of bed and spend the day with young people exploring their 1980 for the first time or adult students building a better today for their families. I’ll spend the work hours with passionate colleagues and friends. I’ll see cousins by the dozens at Walmart. (That’s what happens when you live in your hometown.) And by the grace of God, I’ll return home to my kids and have Mom over for supper. I’ll still visit 1980, but even if I could – as sweet a memory as it is – I wouldn’t stay there and miss today.

Precious Memories IN THE MORNING

Folks, sometimes life can, well, really suck. (Can I say that?) But for those times, I’ve learned to draw on my memories of better times. For example, I was trading emails with an old college buddy this week. We both marched in the Jacksonville State University Marching Southerners “back in the day.” (You may now be in awe that I was a member of such an auspicious group.) He and I agreed that good memories, especially those of special times in our lives, are a gift and resource from God to sustain us through tough times. In fact, I don’t think it’s wrong to equate this with God’s command to Israel to set up monuments of remembrance for themselves individually as well as nationally to call to mind His blessings of the past. He said more than once something like “when your children ask… tell them.” So, I show my children pictures on Facebook of the Marching Southerners and old college friends. I was truly blessed to be a part of this group and have lifelong friends because of it. And the memories are not just “glory days” reminiscences. Instead, they are reminders in tough times that there were blessings in my life and that there are promises for the future. Now, I’m not about to break into a refrain of “precious memories, how they linger…” But, I might just lean back sing “I’ll fly away IN THE MORNING!” (Sorry folks, inside joke for all my 5,000 plus Southerners alum buddies.)

So, if you’re in a tough place in life, think back over where you’ve been and the good things and family and friends that God has put in your life. And if life is pretty good at the moment, then get off of that silly computer and get out there, live, do something, and make some memories for the future!