My Love Affair with Four Women

Last Tuesday morning during breakfast, the 1989 Bon Jovi hit "I'll Be There For You" came through the speakers of the kitchen radio we sometimes turn on for background mood music while we eat. Shelley and I smiled at each other. We then set down our coffee mugs, got up from the table, embraced in a hug, and began to slow dance. This was a moment of grace.

The next afternoon I was downstairs in my study when our two-and-a-half year old Annie quietly knocked on the door, poked her head in and asked, "Daddy, can you hold my hand and help me walk on the balance beam?" This also was a moment of grace.

On Saturday I had to attend a meeting all day, and just before I left, our six-year-old Carly kissed me and gave me a post-it note on which she had written: "I love you. Try not to miss us today." Another moment of grace.

On Sunday morning I served bread and wine to the many in my church who came forward to receive it. As I looked into the eyes of each individual and said "The Body of Christ given for you," I was overcome with the reality of how lavishly these amazing people have loved me, and how deeply I have fallen in love with them-- Christ's Body, His Bride. A moment of grace.

Shelley, Carly, Annie, and the Bride of Christ. Four women I love. Four women who love me.

Moments of grace.

Fill it Up Again

Coffee. The most popular drink in the world.

Its intoxicating aroma, it pleasurable taste, its mood lifting effect.

Students, artists, businessmen, elderly widows, lovers-- people love it.

Perhaps the most significant appeal throughout the centuries is neither the pick-me-up it gives nor the palate-satisfying benefit it delivers, but rather the warm conversational community it somehow creates.

In the Fall of 1993 I was a Sophomore in college. Knoxville, Tennessee. My friends and I loved spending time in the section of town known as the Old City, an historic artsy district filled with shops, eateries, bookstores, and what quickly became our favorite hangout: The Old City Java House. At one time, long ago, I imagine that the building was a factory of some sort. The floors were creeky, uneven, distressed and darkly-stained wooden planks. The tables and chairs were also made of wood, and appeared to be hand-made by a skilled craftsman with an eye for beauty. The walls were weathered bricks, the ceiling was high, and the lighting was dim.

It was a magical place.

We would gather there at least once a week. Wearing frayed and faded jeans, flannel shirts, and Birkenstocks, we would each order up something different, and would sometimes share our drinks-- not because we wanted each others' germs, but because sometimes it was a struggle to scrape together more than $7.85 between all of us. We felt close, warm, and confident that we could speak freely with each other and still be safe and loved.

I loved that year.

This morning as I sit enjoying my morning cup of Whole Foods Pleasant Morning Buzz Blend-- spritzed with a tad of cream and a sprinkle of stevia-- I think of them.

Many are living in the Midwest, a few are overseas, several are still in the South, a couple are in the Rockies. Many have since married, several have children, and more than a few have gone through intensely painful divorces and have gradually picked up the pieces and begun to experience the healing of their emotional wounds.

I smile as I think not only of them, but of the space we shared and the atmosphere in which we lived; little rooms in large dormitories with red bricks and white Corinthians columns. The breathtaking beauty of the Fall in East Tennesee-- the mountains covered in leaves more yellow than Big Bird, more red than Kool-Aid, and more orange than the flames that flickered on the candles my roommate and I would light during the power-outage of that year's snowstorm.

I think of the long nights of laughing until our abs looked like Stallone's when he fought the Russian guy, listening to the Indigo Girls, Phish, and Edie Brickell, worrying about our exams, and talking about sex.

I think of the September morning when I first saw a girl with sandy blond hair, a white t-shirt, jeans, and a Jansport backpack walking up the main hill of campus to the 100-year-old building where she would have her next class. I was dazed. One month later we had our first date at Old City Java. Fifteen-and-a-half years later we are still in love, with two daughters, and every morning we drink coffee together and talk about what's new, what's good, and what we are worried about.

And we love this year, this time, this moment, this space we share.

Emily Saliers, one of my favorite songwriters, penned these words: "The new road is on old friend. Fill it up again."

Yes, we're all on an exciting new road, and it is paved with the fond memories of old friends. And while were traveling on it, let's drink down a cup of Java and then fill it up again.

Tap the Rockies

There is a place where the air is clean, the sun is hardly ever veiled, and the exquisite snow-capped mountains seem to have been freshly chiseled just yesterday. A land where healthy eating and active living are not only possible to attain, but difficult to avoid. A culture where acceptance is the norm, and beauty is the pervasive theme.

Colorado.

If you've never been there you'll think I'm overstating its reality, possibly bordering on being a mystical tree-hugger. If you have been there you'll think I'm understating its reality, possibly bordering on being a mediocre describer of a place that comes close to Tolkien's Rivendell.

I was born there, but we moved before I was a month old.

I spent a Summer there during college. More than 15 years ago. I traveled many roads, hiked many trails, and shook many hands. I never dreamed I would backpack to a Peak more than
14, 000 feet above my hometown of Virginia Beach-- 14, 110 feet to be exact, and yet my feet were still on the ground. It was mid-July, but the snow came steadily down.

I spent a good bit of time there in recent years as well. In Boulder. Where my sister Jessa lives. The streets there are smooth and clean. The people are laid back, lean, and artistic. It's a wonderful place to be.

My wife, daughters and I are returning to Boulder in August. We'll wake each day to the view of the Flat Irons, the warmth of the sun, the sound of mountain bikes passing by, and the taste of Whole Foods dark roast coffee. Carly and I will hold hands and take walks in the morning. Annie and I will share hummus in the early afternoon, and Shelley and I will sip wine and kiss in the evening.

I will officiate my sister's wedding while we are there. I'll pronounce this girl-- who to me is still in many ways the same baby sister my mother brought home from the hospital when I was eight-- and Chad, her wonderful lover, husband and wife. I will also sing to her, at her request, the way I did when she was a toddler. A song about love.

John Denver once sang about an east coast man who "would rather be in Colorado, singing of love in Boulder Canyon". I'm content where I currently live, but in August of 2009 there is no other place on earth I would possibly rather be than in Colorado, singing of love in Boulder Canyon.

Remembrance

Driving home this afternoon, I happened to hear the song "Don't Know What You've Got 'til it's Gone" by the 1980's hair band Cinderella. I smiled, remembering when I first heard that song: in the Fall of 9th Grade, and I loved that year. Now believe me, I'm not one of those guys who still wishes he was in high school. There is very little of it I would want to re-live, and some of it was close to hell. My 9th grade year, however, is a year I remember with great fondness because it gave me something that endures long after high school: Friendship. Duane and Chris were the guys I hung with that year. We met in the school band, where we all three played trumpet. We played hard that year-- in the classroom, on the football field, in parades, and in a competition in Myrtle Beach-- a week-long trip which has a story all its own. We also laughed hard that year. Oh my, did we laugh hard. When my grandfather died that Spring, I cried hard, and Duane and Chris consoled me, in the only way that 9th grade boys know how: they hugged me and made fun of people we knew until I cried with hilarity. We spent lots of time at each others' houses, sleeping over, eating junk food, prank calling our teachers (before caller ID came along and ruined such a fine art at which we were very skilled), watching movies, playing Nintendo, and talking deep into the night. We even occasionally attended church together, perhaps because their parents made it part of the deal when someone spent the night, or perhaps because we needed to assuage our consciences after a long night of trying to out-cuss each other-- though I'm not so sure that's a sin anyway. In any case, I think the reality is simply that we enjoyed each others' company. I've seen these two guys very little since graduation in 1992, but I've thought of them often. Here's to you, Duane and Chris. Thanks for the memories.