I found my hero in an unlikely place.

I listened to the presentation on the radio. The commentator was having trouble accepting returning soldiers from Iraq as heroes. Having grown up during the Vietnam conflict, I knew the difference between the soldier and the conflict. I had watched the news at night as returning veterans, many wounded, were spit on. I experienced first-hand the suicide of a family friend who was not able to adapt to life back home. I wanted to respond and "set the man straight."

But my mind went out on a tangent and I began to wonder, who are my heroes?

Certainly as a child I had many heroes, Abraham Lincoln, Daniel Boone, the soldiers of War World II. I had spent hours upon hours pretending to be these men. Later when I began to read more I embraced the characters in books, some imaginary, some not, as my heroes. In one case a writer, Nathaniel Hawthorne, became a role model.

When I was a teenager, a close friend became a hero. He faced a terminal illness with courage and laughter. I wondered how I would react under similar circumstances.

But who are my heroes now?

I had trouble finding an answer. I can't say I look to any current politicians as heroes. I have instead developed a mild distrust of anything political. Very few sports celebrities come to mind although I do often hear of some being involved in a worthy causes.

Then I remembered something that happened very close to home. Something that occurred in a family I am acquainted with.

The phone call came one Monday morning, "I just had to talk to someone. I just received a call from Vic and his son has been in a bad accident. They are going to amputate both of his feet."

I was in shock, so much so I had to call back after a few minutes to get the details.

"They were scuba diving in Florida. Jordan's feet got into the propeller and they are so mangled it looks like amputation is the only answer."

Over the next few days I stayed in touch with news from the family through mutual friends. It was a miracle that both parents were doctors and knew what to do. It was a miracle they were able to airlift Jordan to a hospital in Miami that has a specialty in this kind of injury. It was a miracle he made it to the hospital after loosing so much blood.

But the true miracle occurred weeks later when I heard Jordan was coming home. As I wondered about his state of mind I heard about his request during the stay in the hospital. He had noticed the many children who could not afford the treatment he was receiving and requested that a foundation be set up for the solicitation of funds to help those in the hospital who could not help themselves financially.

Shortly after he arrived I attended a football game at his high school. All around him were his high school friends, laughing and giving him support. These same friends were selling bracelets in the stands to raise money for his foundation. Miami Hurricane Coach Larry Coker came by the hospital and his autograph said, "Press on, J.T." The slogan is imprinted on the blue bracelets.

Jordan said he was in his hospital room with his aunt when the phone rang and she said somebody named Greg was on the line.

He said, "I only knew one Greg." He said the voice on the line introduces himself as Greg Norman — the golfing great. Jordan says, "I did not expect the Greg to be Greg Norman. I had to ask him again who he was."

He said Norman encouraged him to "stay positive and keep a good attitude."

My heroes are those people like Jordan, people who face life on life's terms with faith, people who are not thinking only of themselves even when facing life's biggest challenges.

Before I check out your "game" tell me your politics.

The older I become the more I relish those times when I am able to "be in the moment." Those times when work, children, and conflicts of the world are pushed aside. I find these moments in prayer and meditation. Many times I find conversation with friends has rooted me in the moment. Sometimes it is the experience of a beautiful sunset. Often I find it during exercise.

I love a long bike ride. I am blessed to live a few short minutes from Chickamauga Military Park where there are several miles of road suitable for riding. If a more strenuous ride is in order there are three mountains offering as much challenge as you desire.

During the winter months I spend time in the local YMCA, where a game of racquetball is easily found. Friday afternoon, a friend and I met there for a "friendly" game, friendly meaning he would just as soon pound me into the court as not.

We met in the locker room and caught up with the news on friends and family as we changed into our workout clothes. When we walked upstairs into the court area a man, seated in front of our court smiled and spoke, "Good Morning."

"Good morning."

"Would you like to play cut throat?"  ( a game in which one person plays th eother two)

I caught myself sizing up my opponent. Normally I would have taken in his age, physical condition, and equipment, trying to decide whether he was going to be someone I wanted to play before I answered. This time it was different. I noticed he was of dark complexion with wavy hair with a slight accent and before I knew it I was wondering whether he was from the Middle East.

I have never considered myself prejudice and I don't think I was being entirely so now. But, I had to admit, three or four years ago I would never have wondered whether he was Muslim, or Christian, or atheist. I would only have wondered what kind of game he had. I thought about my reaction and realized that we are bombarded with news of Arab and Jew and Christian conflict. Politics is permeated with agendas based on belief. The evening news is substantially dominated with stories of Middle East conflict and terrorism.

With no premeditation on my part I had become one of those who first judges based on religious belief, even when a simple game of racquetball is in order.

Radical Change - Radical Actions

Once, in the 1.5 mile drive from the main highway there were 5 houses, now there are 20 subdivisions. Once as a boy I roamed these hills quail hunting now there are none to be seen, once I fished in the lake adjacent to the property, now it is virtually impossible to find a point of entry all the land is divided and has multimillion dollar homes, some with one resident per 2 or 3 thousand square feet.


I thought of the legacy I am passing to my son, one with barriers to nature and then I realized….. At some point in time, unless we change our habits and lifestyle there will be no nature to be enjoyed. We are already polluting, consuming, destroying at an unrecoverable rate. On a global level, the glaciers are melting, our natural resources are being consumed at an alarming rate and yet there is less concern than who will win the super bowl.

I find it hard to remove the environment from my mind these days and find that for the most part, few who I talk to seem to care. Maybe it is because we have concentrated too much attention on global problems that seem insurmountable and not enough on what is going on in our own backyard. How much fertilizer do you spread on that green lawn that requires mowing once every week or two? How often do we shop for food items that are grown non-organically and require petro to be delivered rather than locally grown or even home grown organic vegetables? Could it be that purchasing items in bulk rather than individual packages would be less costly in the long run? How many times do you run home to change clothes before those errands we need done before the day is done and for that matter, why is mass transit not a first choice rather than an afterthought.

Environmentalism starts at home, and then hope spreads. Radical change requires radical action, the kind that begins at home.

Somewhere Past the Darkness

Somewhere past the darkness


Where fear is put to bed

Somewhere past transitory desire and famished need

There is a candle, a bright shining light of love

One candle chases the shadows, but two can light a room.

Come with me my love, lay with me throughout the night

Acquaint me with your hopes and dreams, fears and doubts

I do not wish for you to need me

Ask me to stay instead… because you want me

Open your heart and bleed upon me

Wash me in your thought

cc mike gray 2010

A Christmas Story

I first saw the girl on a train coming into Chattanooga station. She was young and pretty enough but I think it was the smile that caught my attention. I made a good impression, being back from WWII and still in my uniform with four combat ribbons and a purple heart, enough so that she showed that smile when I walked down the aisle of the train. Chattanooga was just a stop over; I was headed out west to seek a fortune in California. I had seen the grape arbors in France and had it in my mind I was going to build a vineyard. But that smile stopped me and the next thing I knew it was eight weeks later and I had to do something. That's why I went home for Christmas alone, despite her asking me to stay, I needed some time to think.

If anyone could help me sort all this out it would be Dad, he and Mom had been married for 58 years this past summer and I still saw him give her a kiss when he left the house every morning. So home I went, home where I knew I was welcome and I got there on Christmas Eve, just in time for decorating the tree.

Dad and I went to the back of the farm and cut a cedar. He found one with some of those blue berries growing on one side. I don't know what kind they are but he always found one, said Mom liked so much he couldn't bare bringing home a tree without them. I reckin he would have painted some on otherwise. We shaped the tree down on the back porch and made a platform out of an old washtub filled with gravels. I tripped helping carry the tub in and spilled them gravels all over the steps, he laughed and smoked on his pipe while I was picking them up.

"So why you been staying up in Chattanooga since you got back, your Mom she's been worrying about you."

"I had some things I had to take care of before I come home."

Dad knew that wasn't the whole story but he never was one to pry none. He figgered it would all come out eventually. I got the gravels back into the tub and we carried it into the living room them pushed the trunk of the tree down in them so it was secure.  I had offered to buy them a stand for the tree one year, but he said, "That's the way your Mom likes it and I reckin that's the way its gotta be."

After dinner Mom and I trimmed the tree with popcorn strung up on thread and candle. Dad sat in a kitchen chair he pulled into the room and played Christmas carols on his guitar. When we finished Mom lit the candles then joined Dad with her dulcimer. I don't know if there is anything makes me want to be home more than Christmas Eve with mountain music. It went over and over in my head on the battle field in France the year before. There was a lull in the bombardment and I could hear that music as sweet as if I was there. I had closed my eyes and imagined Mom and Dad sitting there singing to me. It was a reason I made it through that hard time and it was a hard time.

The next morning I woke up when I heard the both of them down in the kitchen getting the coffee started so I got up and pulled on some warm clothes. I could go help Dad feed the cattle before breakfast. Felt good to put on something besides a uniform for a change and that flannel shirt felt so soft, like Mom had washed it the day before.

"Morning," I said as I walked into the room. Dad was standing there beside Mom, both of them looking like they had been caught at something. Then I realized he had his arm around her waist and knew I had walked in on him giving her a hug.

"Good morning son," Mom said as she handed me a cup of coffee.

I held the cup with both hands letting the hot steam carry the scent of the coffee into my face.

"Thought I might help you feed this morning Dad," I looked at him as I took my first sip.

"The help would be well thought of son."

Then he reached over and kissed Mom on the cheek and said, "Maybe we can talk someone into a pancake breakfast when we get back."

It had been a cold Christmas and the snow lingered around from the week before. Grandpa used to say it was waiting on its brother. We finished feeding the stock then Dad picked up and axe. "We've got to break the ice on the pond before we quit, the cows can't get in to drink."

As we walked down to the pond I gathered up my nerve and asked Dad, "Do you still love Mom."

He looked at me like I was crazy. "Sure, more than I did when I met her," Then waited like he was expecting me to say something else.

We walked on in silence for a while before Dad broke it, "Something you want to tell me son?"

It all came spilling out, the vineyards in France and how I had heard California had the right climate to grow grapes, how scared I had been the whole time I was in Europe. How there were things I had done I would never talk about. We reached the pond and I took first turn at chopping the ice. It was a precarious job. You had to stand right next to the water to hit the ice and yet you had to be careful not to slide in when it broke so I quit talking while we were finishing cutting five big holes. If you didn't make them big enough they would freeze right back up and a cow wouldn't break the ice to get at water. A horse would paw at it until it had broken but a cow would just stand there starring at it, no matter how thirsty it got.

We were walking back up to the barn when I told Dad about the girl in Chattanooga. He put the axes up and sat down on a bale of hay before he said anything back, "So this girl, do you love her?"

"Oh she's pretty Dad, she's got walnut colored hair and big old blue eyes and when she smiles the whole room lights up."

"Yea, but do you love her?"

"Well I guess so, we never fight and she is sweet as she can be."

"Yea son but do you love her?"

He kept asking that question until I had to answer it. But I didn't know how so I asked him, "How do you know if you are in love?"

He lit his pipe and took two or three puff's on it before he answered, "Love marks a man son, it shakes him down in his boots. It's different for a woman, she knows what it is. But a man, most of the time it takes by surprise. He don't know the difference in just having a crush and real love."

"How do you know."

"Why if you you've ever been there you can see it on a man, it's written on his face."

"Am I in love?"

He laughed, "Why son that's something you have to decide for yourself, if I told you might not believe me and you would always wonder if I was wrong."

"But how do you know if it will last? How did you know yours and Mom's would last."

"Well now that's a different kind of love son, that's the kind you decide on. It not that stuff that hits you like a sledge hammer and makes your knees buckle it's the kind that grows on you because every day when you get up you start it out with a kiss and the words in your head. Then when you lay down at night you fix anything that you've done wrong before you go to sleep. Cause you know when you get up in the morning you are going to love her all over again. You know it because you decide it."

We got up and walked back down toward the house, kicking the snow off our boots on the outside and then taking them off beside the back door, setting them just inside where they would stay warm. Dad walked over to Mom and pulled her to him sideways, giving her a kiss on the cheek when he did. "I think I want to skip them pancakes this morning and go right on to Christmas dinner," he said. "The boy and I had a talk while we were out and he needs to go back to Chattanooga on the afternoon train. He's got some business he needs to attend too."

CC 2009 Michael Gray

For Freedom Cries

Hang with the claws of the leopard
walk into the devil's clutch
Until even God is alone
And still you will not be forgotten
The world watches while freedom cries
Be not afraid God is with you
Man's sting can not seize
what death does not own
Carry your burden with our accent
For today and tomorrow
you bare the prayers
Of a million tongues a hundred religions
Your lament will not be silenced
For far above the rooftops it carries on the wind

Easter Sunday

St. Michael’s Episcopal Church is now fifty years old. Additions have transformed the little chapel to a church of some size with a new sanctuary, parish hall and education wing. Instead of an on-loan minister we now have a full time staff composed of a rector, an assistant and church clerk. The congregation had gathered to celebrate this occasion and my eyes wondered about the room taking in the people. Some I knew; some I didn’t. Some I recognized; some I did not. Although I had been here ten years myself, the church was large enough that there were still people whom I had not met, people who hung onto the periphery of the congregation. Then I spotted Lester Niles and his wife; she had her hand on his arm, her eyes aglow with a twinkle, as they always seemed to be. I laughed to myself thinking of that Easter Sunday when Lester first came to our congregation.
Lilies covered the church; they were in each window, beside the choir and down the aisles on each side of the sanctuary. Today was Easter Sunday and every table was draped in white, the minister wore white vestments, the choir... white robes. White gilded the whole church like an early morning snow, snow unspoiled by footsteps, smooth and glistening. I had taken my station on the left entrance, handing out programs, as each parishioner entered.
“Good morning Mrs. Tally, you certainly look festive today.” Mrs. Francis Tally was anything but festive, one hundred years old in action, but probably sixty chronologically. I had not heard her speak a word since her husband died some fifteen years ago without a complaint tacked on the end.
“All that white, I wonder how much it cost the church to put all those lilies around, couldn’t they have found some family that needed the money more. Why, when Albert was alive he would have found a better way to spend all that money, this church just hasn’t been the same since Albert died.”
Albert had died five years before I became a member so I had never met him, but if Albert was anything like Francis Tally I had no doubt that was true.
The Sunday I was initiated as an usher I greeted Mrs. Tally and politely walked down the isle to show her to her seat. She always sat in the second pew from the front on the left side of the church, the side closest to the podium. I turned, looking around for the first time; proud that I knew where to guide her when I was surprised to see she was still waiting at the rear of the church. I made my way back to her and this time offered my arm, which she took. I noticed a slight twitch at the corners of her mouth and I couldn’t quite decide whether that was a smirk, grin, or look of comtempt, so I proceeded with no comment.
No sooner than I had made my way back to the rear of the church than Ms. Mira Estes materialized, dressed to kill in bright vermilion from head to her foot. Her head was festooned with a floppy hat best described as a soufflé turned upside down and her feet with spiked heals that raised her height two or three inches. In between, her dress flowed, for there was no shape, just layer upon layer of shiny, translucent cloth that reminded me of flexible deck screening. Only five feet tall, she made up in dress what she lacked in height. Mira was the complete opposite of Mrs. Tally, always greeting you with a kind word, I was glad to give her my arm to guide her into the sanctuary.
“Good morning Paul, isn’t this a fine Easter morning to be alive. It does my old heart good to see you so involved in the church; helping us old ladies find our way. I never married you know, but if I had it would have been someone just like you.”
Many parishioners at St. Michael’s had their own pew, sitting in the same spot each and every Sunday. I remember hearing that tickets to the Super Bowl were so hotly contested once in a divorce they were the sole reason it ended up in court instead of being settled before hand. The judge was so angered he ordered the tickets shared on a rotating, every other year, basis. Pews were the same. Families inherited pews. When old man Wilson died his wife just moved over and his son moved up from three rows back. When Mrs. Johnson moved to be close to her daughter in Colorado her pew sat empty for two months, out of reverence for her absence. The Grayson family finally moved in as a result of being her neighbors for twenty odd years. Some were as animent about where they sat as to challenge a usurper after service, reminding them, “It was so good to see you sitting there in my pew that I couldn’t even think of asking you to move.” Ms. Mira’s was the fourth pew back on the left side of the center aisle.
The Lilly Christians were out in force today. That is what Father James called them, the ones who show up on Easter and aren’t seen again until Christmas, when they magically turn into Poinsettia Christians. Both varieties are numerous enough to cause a seating shortage on these two Sundays.
Reverend James, the choir, and other lay assistants followed the cross in procession down the right side of the aisle. Once past, Scott Bean, a new usher just like me, took his place in the center of the aisle to hold back the late comers, waiting until the procession was over to seat them. I never understood why some people are always late to church. Are they also late to work and school or is there a contest to see who can arrive the closest to 10:30 without being late, and these are the ones who loose? There are those whom I believe will be late to their own funeral.
Movement behind Scott caught my attention and I looked over just in time to see a large, gray headed man push by my fellow usher. Probably weighing 250 pounds he was not obese, just large with shoulders bearing witness to a life of labor not a desk job, his gray hair long but neatly combed fell in waves from front to back. He had apparently gotten the memo about dressing the church out in white, but missed the part about the starting time of the service. I stared, he was dressed completely in white, white shirt, white tie, white pants, and white coat and I had not seen a white suit in thirty years. The only part of his clothing not white, were his black suspenders and black shoes, paten leather and burnished so brightly they flashed with each step, reflecting light from the stained glass windows. He would have been comical if not so imposing a figure, I would have guessed his age to be mid sixties, but his physical condition was of a much younger man.
There was one, and only one, empty seat on the right side of the church near the front. He slid by the procession and headed straight for it with enough commotion to draw half of the congregation’s attention. He captured the other half when instead of excusing himself and waiting for everyone to move over to let him in, he stepped up in the seat walked down the pew behind Mr. and Mrs. Bob Jackson plopping down in the empty spot, a spot much smaller than his bullgous form needed, causing Bob’s wife to practically sit in his lap.
Trouble, it had arrived, but I still hoped for the best. I had not grown up Episcopalian, with its structured service and quite reverence. No, I had grown up in a church apparently like this man thought he was in. A church where people stood for prayer instead of kneeling, where if you were not on time you simply slid in as quickly as possible, where a shouted acknowledgement of what was said in the pulpit was common.
Things settled down however, and being wrong encouraged me. We made it through the Old and New Testament readings and almost through the gospel selection, when our visitor got religion and started shouting, “Praise the Lord, Christ is raised.”
At this point Bob and Sarah Jackson slid out of their seat and hurriedly made their way to the rear of the church while my counterpart headed for the visitor’s pew. He tried as discretely as possible to quiet our new friend down. But, our friend became louder upon his arrival; apparently thinking Scott had come to join his revelry. Scott, for his part, almost fell backward, saying, “It’s alright, it’s all right, please, please just sit down.” We all assumed he was nuts and hope was that he would stay seated for the rest of the service.
Once again things quieted down and we all breathed a sigh of relief. But when Father James began the sermon, upon the completion of each sentence he was met with the response, “Praise our Holy Lord, praise Jesus.”
This time with obvious caution Scott made his way back to our new friend in front. Once again the closer he got the louder our visitor became, but Scott didn’t back off this time and said, “Sir, we don’t want any trouble, but you are going to have to come with me.”
With no hesitation, our gentleman followed meekly to the rear of the church and headed out the door. We all gave a sigh of relief and tried to gather our wits to determine what we needed to do next.
We four ushers gathered in the back of the church and made our way forward to begin taking up the collection. I had come to the very end of my section when I saw him. There in the back row was our friend in the white suit. Sitting as calmly as possible with his eyes closed as if in meditation. Now he was my problem! I was not scared, well okay I was nervous. What would I do if he started disrupting the service? I ran through my mind what was left and could not think of anytime that would elicit a Hallelujah or Praise the Lord. I was wrong. Trouble came during the confession. While all others were repeating Lord have mercy, our friend cried, “Lord forgive me for I am the worst of sinners.” I slowly started toward him, not knowing what I was going to do. “I have sinned in every way possible.” I quickened my step. “I have stolen, lied and been in jail.” Scott started over from the other side of the church. “I have sinned against my brother by telling lies about them.” I was almost there. “I have fornicated with…”
Suddenly from out of nowhere, Ms. Mira Estes slid by me. She pulled me back, as she slid into the pew beside this man who was nearly three times her size. She gripped his arm and whispered in his ear. I could not hear what she said but for the first time that Easter Sunday our visitor was quite.
The rest of the service was uneventful. Our visitor took his lead from Mira and kneeled when she kneeled, spoke when she spoke, and took communion at her side.
That was nearly five years ago. Now on the first and third Sunday of every month I see Lester and Mira Niles sitting in the fourth pew on the left side. Lester has learned to conduct himself like a life long Episcopalian and from what I’ve heard on the second and fourth Sundays of every month, Mira can be found sitting beside Lester, shouting a few ‘Praise the Lord’s’ herself, down at the First Avenue Church of the Ascension.