Another Day

This one was exceptionally long: leaving at 0700 and returning at 2230.  The morning started at 0545, the usual time.  Upon becoming aware, the first words uttered are “Good morning, God.”  As with many who live with an unpredictable, chronic condition, the body is surveyed for new changes . . . new anomalies.  There are none.  “Thank You, God.”  Noting that not only is it another day, but the mark of another year, that prompts another “thank You God.”  The phone rings, a friend in Alabama whose wedding I recently officiated.  “You didn’t think I would forget, did you?”

As on all of my past birthdays thoughts quickly turn to my mom, The Boss.  Arriving three weeks premature at 4 lbs, 4 oz. almost six decades ago, no one except The Boss expected me to survive. After living my first two months in an incubator, The Boss scooped me up and took me home, proclaiming that she could take better care of me.  And she did.  I am still here.  And as tight as things sometimes got, especially after Father’s sudden demise just months shy of my 15th birthday, The Boss was my earthly rock.  Even now, at the age of 94, she still asks “Can I do anything for you?”

At some point the mobile phone started beeping.  Birthday greetings posted on my Facebook timeline.  Private messages.  Virtual cakes, balloons and cards.  Well wishes.  The Beatles.  In the meantime, I was on the road to the Harris County Civil Courts building, arriving around 7:45.  More phone beeps.  More greetings via Facebook timeline.  Attempts to respond with a LIKE in acknowledgment and appreciation for the thought.  From the Civil Courts building to the post office to Greenway Plaza.  More phone beeps.  Some text messages via mobile phone and Facebook. Finally to my office.  “Happy birthday!”  A Gmail pop-up announces a gift from my Sweet Pea.

Three hours into may “desk” time I am roused for lunch.  They close/lock the office and the seven of us go a few blocks down Voss.  The 7th, a part-time bookkeeper, says, “I feel kind of guilty; I just got here 30 minutes ago.”  The reply: “oh, just do as you’re told: go to lunch!”  There ensued about 90 minutes of non-business talk, good food, and really funny stories of “when we were kids.”  A single-digit number of folks ranging in age from 25 to 59 (guess who that is), Black, Vietnamese, Caucasian, Hispanic, and Other, and it was then that I recalled that our “event planner” – the 25-year-old, addresses us as “Family” in her emails.  Somehow, it was all so normal, relationships that began somewhere between 4 months and 23 years ago have converged into one Family.

Back to the office.  More messages, phone calls, etc.  The Boss calls with her own embellished rendition of “Happy birthday to you.”  She still holds a decent tune.  My best friend calls, insisting that we “do something.”  We meet for dinner, then she wants to take me shopping. It is way late and I am far spent.  And stuffed!  Still, she is my best friend, so we stop to browse.

It is now 2321.  After 100+ timeline posts, messages, emails, virtual gifts, gift cards and phone calls, Another Day is almost over, It is not a day I will soon forget.  Let me tell you why.

I can remember other birthdays.  Hugely expensive presents — watches, dinners at over-priced restaurants, a diamond pendent, gold pendants with matching earrings, blah, blah, blah.  What the giver did not seem to grasp was that the gift was not as important as the spirit in which it is given.  I came to have no appreciation for such gifts because they were intended to be substitutes for what is most important about being human.  What is that?  I’m glad you asked.  What is most important about being human, and what keeps us human, is the human connection.  For one who spends a good deal of time in solitude, the human connection is not taken for granted.  Whether via keystrokes transmitted electronically, a phone call, or a place at the table, the genuine spirit of the greeting is as warming as a smile, as tangible as a handshake or a hug.

And so, to my friends and family, thank you for one of the best birthdays ever.  All day long, in one way or another, I was connected.

And so ends Another Day, which reminds me of an old gospel song: Another day that the Lord has kept me.  He has kept me from all evil, kept my mind stayed on Jesus.  Another day . . .

For My Brer on Father’s Day

Brer is my brother, John.  When we were kids he was overly fond of that very dark,  highly viscous fluid known as Brer Rabbit syrup.   That is why I call him Brer.  Sometimes we would run out of the “good” syrup and rather than suffer the agony of ingesting that thick stuff, I would do without the pancakes or waffles our mom had prepared.  From scratch (how else? ).   Anyway, this is not about my inclination toward thin syrup or my mother’s culinary wizardry; it is about my Brer.  And yes, it is Father’s Day.


For the record, I have written about fathers in prior blogs.  On 5 November 2008, I posted Real Dads of the Darker Nation – Part 1, and on 9 November, Remembering Daddy, writing of my father, who is still very much a part of me, though he died 44 years ago.  On 21 June 2009 I posted Real Dads of the Darker Nation – Part III, writing of men who become fathers to the children of another.  And on 24 February and 13 December 2010, and 8 December 2011 I posted writings about my Sweet Pea’s father, Charles Richards. 


Today, while thinking of my father, Charles, and my friends who assumed the role of father in the absence of fathers, I also think of my brother.  Somehow, Brer has morphed into the patriarch of our little Hoxie clan – not because he is the oldest surviving male – but because he has truly become just that.  Sons do not always assume responsible roles in the stead of their predecessors.  Samuel, the prophet, who anointed young David, son of Jesse and later to become king of Israel, had, to put it bluntly, lousy boys.  They were unfit to succeed their father in God’s work.  I am sure without much thought, you, the reader, can think of the mishandling of well established business by succeeding generations – some you may even know personally.  The deal is, all are not fit to walk the path or assume the responsibilities of their predecessors.  We Hoxies fared well in this regard.  Lewis and Lillie conceived and gave birth to John Chester.  As it turns out, that was a good thing.  


Brer is more than a brother; he is my earthly rock.  He gives wise counsel, listens as I verbalize my wildest thoughts – without judging, solves problems, and mediates disputes fairly (and, yes, mediators who help others resolve conflicts still have their own with which to contend).  He even understands my warped sense of humor (a major plus).


Brer is a father and grandfather of natural, adopted and blended-in children; he claims them all without distinction.  And for him, father is not just a label.  He reminds me a lot of our father with his stern exterior and kind heart – like Napoleons – that hard candy with the soft, chewy stuff inside.  He even looks like our father, a little slight on the vertical side, large eyes, strong jaw, and everything else.  Brer has shown me decades of stability and dependability.  On top of all that, he is a really, really smart guy.  And to beat all of that, he knows the Word from cover to cover, and will remind me, quoting book, chapter and verse, when appropriate. 


Weird – perhaps Brer is also psychic.  He just called with an early birthday greeting, and to invite me to lunch tomorrow.  Is he peering over my shoulder?  Spooky.  :)


None of this is to say Brer is perfect (there is none perfect but Jesus, the Christ), or even good (there is none good except God my Heavenly Father). Brer’s got his little idiosyncracies and warts; still, for a sentient  being who puts his pants on one leg at a time like the rest of us, Brer is pretty much the cream of the crop.  It is good to have a brother who not only shares the same blood, but shares himself.  Like Lewis Hoxie, a real father of the darker nation, so goes his son, my brother, John.  

The Family of God for Me in That Place

This evening I was reminded of why I chose to become a member of a particular congregation. We sometimes refer to ourselves as the family of God in this place. This place is our campus -- where we meet for worship, to learn, to fellowship, and to celebrate weddings and new babies and souls gone on with beautiful memorial services that celebrate life. We dedicate babies and commit to supporting their nurture, growth and development. We baptize new believers. We pray with an for each other and others. We encourage and commission missionaries who go near and far to spread the Gospel of Jesus. We have fun and food -- fun for the entire family and food that is consistently good.

About 11 years ago I started going to worship at the 8:30 service at that place when I still held leadership positions in music ministry. That was my hour of worship, unencumbered by worry or wondering -- whether "she" would properly execute her solo, or if "he" would be on time, or whether the drummer would be too loud -- too fast -- too slow -- or too much. Some percussionists don't understand that they are most often accompanists for the accompanists (primary instruments [piano and organ]), who are accompanying the real messengers -- the singers. In that hour I was free to commune with God and His family in that place.

It turned out that the family of God in that place are really nice folks. They not only speak to strangers, but do so with a smile, a firm handshake, a pat on the arm or shoulder or back, a real greeting, a there's a seat up there -- it's a little closer -- do you want to come up? kind of invitation. The kinds of smiles, handshakes and invitations that say we're really glad you're here. While I am pitiful about remembering names, there were faces that had become familiar to me, and to whom mine had become familiar as well. Okay, you're probably asking how do you know your face became familiar to them? Well, it's like this: miss a couple of Sundays and then go back. The welcome to South Main greetings are tossed in favor of it's so good to see you again.

When I left music ministry in 2003 I visited a few churches closer to my home, but on that first Sunday in April 2003 I went back to that place where I had been welcomed so frequently. I have been there since. I cannot say unequivocally that there is no other place like it because I have not been to all of God's places. What I can say is there is none other that I know. Yes, our place is a nice campus that's well cared for. But what makes our place special is not the campus layout or the buildings, but the family.

So what happened? I'll spare you the gory details. After having written this, the unpleasant incident is a fading memory. Tomorrow I shall visit my place, commune with my family, have a little dinner, then prayer, Bible study and choir rehearsal. And it will be as if the memory of this evening that is now fading, was an inconsequential blink on the spectrum of eternity.