Prepping for the journey ...

It was five years ago that I began the year-long journey of Hepatitis C treatment; in fact, it was five years ago Tuesday that Nurse Amy and I went to Dr. Scott's office to learn about administering PEG-Intron and Rebetol.

It seems like so long ago, but it's not too difficult to remember some of the struggles. I suffered the normal side-effects of the interferon and ribivarin, and even a few abnormal ones. Nonetheless, I'd do it all over again to reach that wonderful phrase "virus undetected."

There was another benefit to the treatment: I went from about 245 pounds down to 222 in 52 weeks. Tough way to lose weight, though. Today, I popped the scales at 239, which is one reason why a few days ago I started a walking regimen.

During my last physical, which was months ago, Dr. Bruce told me I needed to exercise more and eat more sensibly or I was headed for blood pressure and cholesterol meds.

"I used to walk nearly daily," I told him. "But ever since my schedule changed ..."

King of Excuses.

The truth is, though, I did walk more when I worked nights. I also used that time to pray and gain some spiritual focus.

About three weeks ago, Donna and I drove to Glasgow, Kentucky, to visit with Steve and Karen, longtime friends of ours whom we would love to see more often. I met Steve during those wild years at East Tennessee State University. He was in ROTC and I was on TDRL (Temporary Disabled Retirement List) awaiting final disposition from the Navy. Because of that military status, I was allowed to drink beer at the ROTC table during Happy Hour at Poor Richard's.

As fate (God) would have it, I met Donna and she worked with Steve's then girlfriend, Karen, at Western Steer. Steve and Karen later married, beginning their journey in the world of career military. Donna and I married, beginning our journey in the world of career journalism. We never lost touch, but always wished we lived closer to each other. This sense of family became more intense because of our common faith journey.

In the mid- to late 1980s, Steve, Karen and kids visited us in Knoxville. While there, Steve talked about having hiked portions of the Appalachian Trail. We mused about how neat it would be to take our boys hiking on the AT one day. It never came to pass. Still, while visiting in Glasgow three weeks ago, we talked again about taking that journey; in fact, Steve had a group of men from the outdoors ministry at his church who were interested.

So, with that goal in mind, on the five-year anniversary of that visit to Dr. Scott's office, I began what will be a five-month regimen of getting in shape for a three-day, two-night hike on the AT. It's a stretch from an area in Upper East Tennessee to Damascus, Virginia.

Not sure if the hike will come to pass; however, I pray it does. Whatever the case, it's a worthy goal.

At that last physical, Dr. Bruce said I need to walk two miles in 30 minutes, five days a week.

The past three days, I've walked a little over one mile (1.2 miles, I think) in 20 minutes, so it's doable.

It's raining outside and the temp is about 37. Weather.com expects it to be clear about noon today. So, I'm taking my walking shoes to get in my regimen on the Greenbelt.

Maybe I can dethrone the King.

Grace and peace ...

The baptism of Rhodyjane revived my soul ...

Rhodyjane Meadows

Christian baptism takes on different forms, sometimes depending upon tradition.

In the United Methodist tradition, some pastors liken our view of the mode of baptism to Burger King: We'll do it your way. You can be sprinkled upon, poured upon, laid upon with wet hands, or dunked, the latter of which has taken place in venues ranging from oceans to swimming pools.

Still, there's something about a river baptism that brings a certain amount of nostalgia and romance to the faith experience — an experience that was heretofore foreign to me.

But then along came the baptism of Rhodyjane Meadows and her son, Zachary Zan Collins.

One mid-summer Sunday morning, Rhodyjane showed up during worship at Roan Mountain United Methodist, where my mother attends. The story goes that after worship she asked if she could play the piano and, after playing a while, was invited back to play the next Sunday. On another occasion, she showed up with her guitar and played both piano and guitar during worship.

As it turns out, Rhodyjane is a storyteller, “flatfoot” dancer, and plays a variety of instruments — autoharp, clawhammer banjo, guitar, piano, bass fiddle, dulcimer, and who knows what else — with an old-time Appalachian music band known as the Roan Mountain Moonshiners.

Rhodyjane wasn't there on the Labor Day weekend Sunday when I preached at Roan Mountain, but I heard something that piqued my interest: Rhodyjane was to be baptized in Doe River the next Sunday afternoon. Despite the many river baptisms that take place in Blount County, it was beyond my own experience — but that would end.

Following worship at Green Meadow United Methodist in Alcoa, I high-tailed it to Upper East Tennessee, turning down Bear Cage Road off of U.S. 19E. The baptismal “font” was a spot on the river at the farm of Hershel Julian. Slowly, the people gathered, set up tables that were eventually filled with pot-luck dishes of barbecue, fried catfish and other Southern delicacies, with the crowd eventually moving to the riverside. The faithful gathered along the river bank and on the bridge spanning the waterway to watch.

Once the water had been tested and a suitable depth found, Rhodyjane gathered her “sisters” around her to sing:

“As I went down in the river to pray
Studying about that good ol' way
And who shall wear the starry crown?
Good Lord show me the way!
O sisters let's go down
Let's go down, come on down
O sisters let's go down
Down in the river to pray ...”

Dennis Milhorn, pastor at Roan Mountain, was joined in the water by Tony Palubicki, who pastors Big Stone Gap (Va.) Presbyterian Church, which Rhodyjane says “raised me up to love the Lord.”

“My 85-year-old mother plays the organ in this church, and has for over 50 years,” Rhodyjane told me in an e-mail.

As the community gathered along the banks of Doe River, as well as a bridge crossing the water, there was a real sense that God was present in that Sacrament — that “sacred moment” where Rhodyjane and her young adult son went down into the river and proclaimed in the “sign act” that they were believers in the saving grace of Jesus Christ.

Zach was taken down into the water and after rising up out of the water, Rhodyjane exclaims, “Look! A rainbow!”

United Methodist Bishop William Willimon writes in “Remember Who You Are: Baptism, a Model for Christian Baptism”: “Baptism is the passageway into discipleship, the fitting response to the proclamation of the gospel, the model for what the Christian life is: a life of obedience, servanthood, love, and faithfulness — even unto death.”

Rhodyjane has a vision for where her discipleship is taking her: She's just finished a CD entitled, “Seems Like a Sunday,” which will be marketed by the Alzheimer's Association. She is also seeking certification as a “Therapeutic Musician” for people who find themselves in clinical settings, such as post-op, birthing mothers, children's hospitals and hospice. As she explains, “A therapeutic musician learns to play at a pulse rate and can actually help to stabilize a patient's heart rate, lower blood pressure and pain levels, increase oxygen saturation.”

She emphasizes that it's a ministry of healing.

Sounds like baptism to me.

Maybe Michael is at peace now ...

Like most 50-plus-year-olds, I remember Michael Jackson long before the days of "Thriller."

In my adolescence, there was "I Want You Back," ABC," and "Ben," the latter of which always seemed a little creepy to me. After all, Ben was a rat, if I recall.

While the Jackson 5 was way too bubble gum for me in 1969 to the early 1970s, Michael and his family always seemed harmless enough. Their music was a strain of pop along the lines of The Archies, The Cowsills and 1910 Fruitgum Company.

Still, you have to wonder how stardom affects a 10-year-old boy -- particularly in USAmerica where we treat pop stars like little gods. On the other hand, we know how it affects the little gods we make in celebrity culture. Wipe the cobwebs from your mind and the names surface like so many ghosts in a Smoky Mountains cemetery: Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Elvis Presley, Jim Morrison, Brian Jones, Keith Moon. And you don't have to look very far to see the ones that are still alive, but are bent on self-destruction.

I read somewhere that the average lifespan of a rock musician is about 37 years. If true, I guess Michael Jackson beat the system in that regard; however, as he became more and more of a caricature of his own character, I found myself often pitying him. As I watched his physical transformation and obviously troubled soul, I would often wonder what it was that drove him to such bizarre behavior.

I'm not a psychiatrist -- I don't even play one on TV -- but it seemed obvious that there was some sort of self-loathing going on inside his head.

I was washing our cars and thinking about him, which was strange since I never really cared for his music. Then again, it wasn't the music, or the talent, or even the bizarre antics for which many people will remember Michael that was crossing my mind as I wiped the grime away. I was thinking -- no, praying -- that Michael finally found the One who accepted and loved him just as he was, not as he wished himself to be.

Rest in peace, Michael.

Take my hand, and meet me at the Cross

I just stumbled upon Brian McLaren's "synchro-blogging on sexuality" post. I had no idea this was going on today, which means I am really out of the loop or this movement was really under the radar.

Nonetheless, I thought I would prayerfully post on this issue. I have a great deal of respect for Brian, as well as Tony Campolo, who has also written and posted on this subject.

Personally, I am nowhere near where I was on this issue some 20 years ago; in fact, I find myself in a very questioning position because it is far more complex than it is often presented in the Christian community -- which means, it is more complex than I presented in prior writings.

Truth be known, I am nowhere near where I was theologically or positionally on this issue five years ago. The main commonality between the hugely conservative viewpoint I had in the late 1980s, the viewpoint I had when writing about it in 2004, and the viewpoint I have today is this: If your heart is as my heart is, then give me your hand.

In other words, meet me at the Cross.

I want to be a part of Bridging the Gap, so if I had to stake some ground tonight it would likely be somewhere in the same acreage of Bridging The Gap: Tony Campolo's take on "Love the Sinner, Hate the Sin."

Still struggling, but still open ...

Grace and peace ...

Life with Aunt Ginna ...

My Aunt Ginna was a complex woman.

She could be tough as nails.

When I pick through the cobwebs of my mind, there is this family story of Ginna sitting at a stoplight in downtown Richmond in her blue and white Oldsmobile. The light turns green, and Ginna’s a bit impatient to get moving, but there’s this woman walking slowly in front her. The woman stops, turns her head, glares at Ginna and says, “You wouldn’t DARE hit me!”

Ginna guns the engine and shouts, “You wanna BET?!”

It was probably the hard-scrabble life of the 13 Harris children that toughened their young hides. When Ginna was 14, both of her parents were gone … and there were three children younger in the brood: Nora, Clifford and Bobby.

Tough circumstances can put a hard edge on your shell, but they can also create a place for grace -- and compassion. Because it is no longer, “There but for the grace of God go I,” rather it is, “I have been in your place …”

It is not the grace and compassion of sympathy; it is an incarnational grace of empathy.

That was Ginna: tough as nails one minute; full of grace and compassion the next.

Even though her toughness is legendary, it is the grace and compassion of Ginna and my late Uncle Russell – the grace and compassion of those two Christians — that sticks with me … and my mother … and my sister, Sheree.

And there’s good reason for that: We three who were sometimes vagabonds were great recipients of that grace, and compassion.

The three Harris siblings who lived in Richmond as adults – Ginna, my Uncle Willard, and my mother – sort of looked out for one another, even as adults.

I have commonplace familial memories of holiday jaunts from Horsepen Road to the Miffleton house in Lakeside, as well as Uncle Willard's residence.

But the … uh … uniqueness, if you will, of my family situation led to some likewise unique opportunities for grace and compassion on the part of Aunt Ginna and Uncle Russell – and I would be remiss if I did not offer thanksgiving for those acts.

In the summer of 1969, my mom was in the throes of a horrific marriage, to say the least, and she brought my sister Sheree and I to stay in Richmond while she sorted things out in Florida.

Sheree stayed with the Miffletons, and I went back and forth between my paternal grandparents’ house and the Miffleton household. I sort of had the best of both worlds for a 13-year-old boy. I’d go shooting with my grandpa, and travel with him and my grandmother. He was a professional baseball scout, and what red-blooded American boy wouldn’t love to spend a summer shooting and traveling around watching baseball games.

Ginna and Russell were gracious enough to not only let my sister live with them for the summer, but were also patient enough to allow an adolescent boy to pop in and out as he felt the need … or, perhaps, as the grandparents felt they had experienced all of the shenanigans they could take for a while.

As Linda will so often remind us, that was the summer of the infamous Virginia Beach vacation … where I sincerely drove Ginna and Russell nuts. No one knew what ADD was in 1969, I am certain, but I bounced around the two of them like so many beach balls.

“Where’ we eatin’ breakfast Uncle Russell? Can we go to the pancake house again? How about the water slide? Can we do that again?”

Five of us crammed in The Emperess hotel room for a week; me harassing Linda every single chance I could get; and Linda and Sheree doing their best to lose me on the beach.

That was the same week the men walked on the moon.

It was a beautiful thing for Ginna and Russell to invite Sheree and I along, and it was a a beautiful thing for them to open their home and hearts to a niece and nephew.

A truly memorable summer.

But it was at summer’s end where we truly experienced the sacrificial Christian love that Ginna, and Russell, had for their family … maybe even a unique love for her sister Nora and her children.

Sometime late that summer, my mother exits the truly horrible marriage and makes her way back to Richmond.

Broke … and broken.

A single mom in 1969, with two teenage children.

No job.

No money.

No place to live.

Ginna and Russell are there, putting hands and feet to their faith, the teachings of which maintain that pure religion is to care for the widows and orphans.

Sheree and I were spiritual orphans.

My mother was a spiritual widow.

And in familial and Christian love, Ginna and Russell help her pick up the pieces and move on.

They help us find an apartment -- one that’s close by, I would note -- and Uncle Russell takes care of the rent, deposit, you name it, to enable us to move in.

He and Ginna then take us to Kenneth Lord Furniture, the business he had worked his way up to own on Cary Street, and we spend the evening picking out furniture for the apartment.

Even as my grandparents took me shopping for school clothes as the summer of 69 drew to a close, Ginna and Russell bought my sister Sheree’s clothes that year.

Afterward, Ginna would stop by our apartment while my mother was at work and put groceries in an empty refrigerator.

There are many other acts of grace and compassion on the part of Ginna, and Russell, that I could tell you about, but I’m going to close with something that is most important to me … and by osmosis, if you will, to my family.

Ginna and Russell were heavily involved in Hatcher Memorial Baptist Church as an extension of their faith. Uncle Russell was a deacon, and in the fall of 1969 I was strongly urged to begin attending.

I really didn’t fit in that well; after all, the closest I likely came to a church while in Florida was when I rode my bicycle past one.

But I hung in there for a while. Even sang in the youth choir.

And was baptized sometime within the next year.

My life being what it was, I went through my own struggles, and Ginna and Russell helped me pick up the pieces on at least one occasion.

And when God finally got a good grip on me at the age of 29, and I truly gave my life to Christ, I made sure Aunt Ginna and Uncle Russell knew, because God, through His Holy Spirit, was reaching down to me through these Christian actions.

I spoke with Aunt Ginna sometime after I committed my life to Christ on Easter Sunday, 1985, and wanted her to let my Uncle Russell know – particularly how grateful I was for his having led me to be baptized.

In her words, he said, “Well, I guess it took.”

We who live on this side of eternity can not know the exact nature of the experience of on the other side, but I can imagine Uncle Russell greeting Ginna in this way: “Dahlin, I didn’t mind waitin’ …”

And Ginna perhaps responding, “Russell, you’re not gonna believe what’s been goin’ on since you’ve been gone.”

Thanks be to God for the Christians in our life.

Grace ... and peace.

Thankful for brothers and sisters in Christ ...

I'm really thankful for brothers and sisters in Christ.

I'm particularly thankful for the brothers -- men of faith whom I can call on and say, "Bruddah, I'm standing in the need of prayer." I say that because women of faith have long carried the church. It's only been in recent decades that I believe contemporary men have began to stand up and be counted as men of faith.

I knew a tough day was ahead of me and I called on one of my brothers as I was driving to work. It made the morning go easier. It was still tough, but knowing a brother was praying with me gave me strength, peace and courage.

I stand in grace ... and peace.

Taking a break ...

Sometimes you've just got to take a break. But for some of us, even when we get a break we can find ourselves having to work.

For instance, I'm taking three days off to spend some time at Ripshin. I've got a few chores to do, but that's not really "work." The work I have to take with me is a 10-page paper on Karl Barth that's due in a little more than a week.

I'm printing out the material, some of which I have been reading, and taking it with me.

Well, at least the class will be over before Memorial Day weekend, which is my next break.