I was born on my uncle Tom’s 15 birthday and he and I were best of friends until his death on April 17, 1987, at the young age of 49. We had a lot of dreams and plans for our lives. No one expected either of us to not even make it to 50.

God had other plans. Had our plans worked out, Jan and I would be living in a two-story log cabin (that we built … we already had the plans) on about 3.5 acres of land atop a part of the foothills of a chain of mountains (I think it’s a part of the foothills of the Cumberland Plateau of the Appalachians) that sort of peter out in north Alabama. Tom and I would have our pilot’s license and be co-owners of a small aircraft. I’d be certified in SCUBA (Tom was a master diver / instructor for PADI and though we did some dives together, I never was certified as his cancer put an end to his diving). I’d have a couple of horses and a milk cow. And Tom and Betsy would be living across the street on their 30 acres of land where we’d sit on the porch together and swap grandparent stories.

But God had other plans for Tom … and me. Tom died of a horrible cancer. I moved to Florida for a horrible 7 of the 8 years we were there. Then we moved to California for what I thought would be no more than three years. After almost 20 years out here, I am now an ex-preacher, a funeral director, a grandfather, a home owner (I will be the owner in just over 17 more  years), an old goat, an elder in a church that isn’t the church in which I grew up, and probably a resident here until God calls me  home. When that happens, I assume our son will give his mama a good deal on a funeral service. And I hope a few people will show up to comfort my family.

I get to speak at our church about every 5-6 weeks, and that is a blessing. To me, at least. I can’t say just how much of a blessing it is for others.

At first I was going to celebrate by having all the elders and their wives over for dinner at our house … sort of a chance to get to know them better. But that didn’t work out. Actually, we did that last Sunday evening. If it’s not raining, we’ll probably be picking up trash along our  (Chorus Church) mile of State Highway 79 North. We do this once a month as a community project. It only takes about an hour and makes a huge difference in the appearance of this stretch of road. [We were rained out.]

Jessica is supposed to come over and we’ll all go out for dinner. I was hoping for Phil’s BBQ, but that’s a 70-mile round trip drive and with gas prices what they are ….

As for presents … Janice has all the guitars our living room walls can handle, so there’s no need for much of a present, though I’ve been considering an e-reader of some type.

I think I’ll give myself a present, though. And I’ve thought about this considerably. There is an old Indian saying (though I have no idea how old the old Indian was when he said it) that goes something to this effect: When the horse is dead, dismount.

I think the blog horse is definitely dying, if not dead, and I’m past ready to dismount. One of my best friends in life, Randy, encouraged me to start this thing while we were skipping lectures at Pepperdine in May of 2005. After writing for almost six years, I’m ready to let it go, though I have thoroughly enjoyed it and have been blessed beyond my imagination with friends.

I started writing so I could share my life story for my children and a few friends. I wrote a blog each weekday for a few years just to force myself to pay attention to what was going on around me and look for God in the small, “insignificant” matters of each day. I’m not sure my family even reads this thing any longer as blogging is yesterday’s technology, but I’ve written what I wanted to write for them.

That said, our blog community (we used to call it our blog church) has pretty much disbanded. The few who are still writing continue to bless me and I’ll continue to read and respond. But many of the ones who made this a very special part of my life have long since stopped writing and most of them have stopped making comments. I’m tempted here to name everyone who has blessed me and how you have blessed me, but I know I’d omit someone and that would defeat the purpose. But I have thought about each of you, individually, and am so very grateful for you.

If I have anything left to write, I’ll post a short version on Facebook, though I am not a huge fan of Facebook. As for Twitter … not a chance. Just the name is too sissy for me. When I’ve had time to go through the posts and get the ones I want to keep (I’m going to put them in book form for my kids and grandkids … hopefully), I’ll have Brad shut this down for good.

So thanks for the blessings you’ve given through this medium.

Thanks for reading. I never thought so many would.

Thanks for your comments. They were often better than the blog.

Thanks for making me laugh. Often.

Thanks for challenging me on many levels. Sometimes too often.

Thanks for setting me straight on a few things. Probably not often enough.

Thanks for letting me vent. I usually felt better, maybe at your expense.

Thanks for enduring my attempts at math in a public forum. What was I thinking?

Thanks for your many prayers. They sustained me.

Thanks for allowing me the honor of praying for you. I was honored.

Finally, thank you for being a very special part of my life. You have no idea, especially these past three years. You were my social community.

If you’ve been a reader but never left a comment, I’ve opened up the comments so anyone can leave one without having to register.

After five years, ten months and 1,277 posts …

I hereby dismount.

Astronomical would be my guess.

But it happened. And who could have guessed the person stupid enough to be killed by an earthquake in Japan would just happen to live in California?

I looked up the U.S. and World population clock and as of March 12, 2011, the population of the U.S. is 310,969,774.

So this guy in California who managed to get himself killed at least brought the odds down from astronomical to 310,969,774:1.

That is the way math works, isn’t it? If not, you know the drill … either ignore the blog or give me the embarrassing details in your comment on just how stupid I am at math. I prefer the former. If you prefer the latter, I hope you feel better. Now back to my (subtle hint) blog . . .

And he managed to get himself killed in Crescent City! A place with a history of tsunami waves causing death and disaster. But he was not alone in his daring nature to kill him. People in Orange County went out to the beaches, which were closed and guarded by police officers, to see any tsunani waves that might occur. (They were disappointed.)

There is really no way to tell whether or not the warning will produce significant waves until they actually happen. We were told the difference in size of waves could be huge just a mile up or down the beach … it all depends on the topography of the particular beach.

So the locals went out to the beach, cameras in hand, and at least one family took their toddlers!

That said, even with the reduced odds of being killed in California by an earthquake in Japan, I’m pretty comfortable with the new odds.

I’m not very comfortable living among the stupid people who inhabit parts of this state.

Math morons excluded.

I fell in love with Harry Robert and Jeri the first time I ever met them … probably 15 years ago. I grew up in a religious heritage (don’t use the word fellowship because we were so stinkin’ careful about whom we would fellowship … there weren’t many, and those we did, we did so with suspicion!) in which the older generation, as I recall, seemed to have the Bible pretty much figured out. At least “our” view of the Bible.

Not that many years ago, I sat in a staff meeting in which the minister to seniors told us  “younger” ministers that he had the Bible figured out. We asked for some clarification and basically were told there was nothing left in the Bible for him to learn.

Really? There is nothing in the Bible he didn’t know? But that was the attitude of too many of his generation.

So what a breath of fresh air it was to meet an elder of over 40 years by the name of Bud who seemed to just grow more mellow and gracious with every year. And what a breath of fresh air to meet Harry Robert when he was in his late 70′s … a man with such a hunger for learning and a heart of grace. We roomed together one year at Pepperdine Bible Lectures and it was just a joy to listen to his years of wisdom and grace. (Unlike some of the others I roomed with, but I’ll not mention any names!)

Harry Robert has been a preacher, college professor, teacher of world religions, missionary to Japan, and social worker for the county of Los Angeles. When I first met him, and his lovely wife, I was immediately impressed with their gentle grace. She had (and has) a passion for the Holy Spirit that had always been missing in my heritage. He just loved telling others about the Gospel of Jesus.

Not the “steps of salvation” but the life-filling overflowing of God’s love in our lives that leaves one with no choice but to be transformed by it. He has taught Mormons, Buddhist priests, Communists, and people within our own tradition … possibly the hardest to reach.

Sunday night, we met them at their house about 45 miles south of us and enjoyed a reunion of friendship. He is pushing 91 and works with over a dozen different congregations as a teacher. They spend hours each week counseling others, especially couples who are doing all they can to end a marriage. Their passion is to help preachers and elders entrapped in legalistic sectarianism to find freedom in Christ. More than a few of the preachers have had to leave their pulpits to enjoy this freedom.

I can’t remember a Sunday evening I’ve enjoyed more. I really want to be that type of man as I grow older. Grace filled and ever thirsting to know more of God’s amazing love.

I have a long way to go and probably not enough years left to reach that goal. But as I open my heart to the Lord’s love … just maybe!!

Last week we were there for a fast lunch and I ordered the homestyle chicken sandwich again, only this time I was willing to pay the fee for the dipping sauce. Had my head wrapped around the social injustice of having to pay for an item that is given complimentary at other fast food chains. I was going to be gracious. No Charlie Sheen-esque antics.

When I told the lady (same one who waited on me the last time) I’d like to purchase a honey mustard dipping sauce, she smiled and said, “Oh, we don’t charge for just one dipping sauce for your sandwich.”

Sheesh! What’s a guy to do?

Suddenly I’m wanting to bring up the last visit when I couldn’t get the blasted sauce without giving up extra money (plus 8.75% sales tax … welcome to California)! There needs to be some discussion here. Some clarification. What can I expect the next time I buy that sandwich meal … do I come with the extra quarter or can I expect to get the sauce at no charge?

On the one hand I’d like to think I had something to do with a corporate change of policy, but I fear the next time I order the meal and ask for the sauce, I’m going to be told, “That will be 20 cents … plus tax.” Matter of fact. No apologies. No “please” … just more of my hard earned money.

Surely (and I didn’t call you Shirley) you can see there are some issues here, right? This is not just the over-reaction of a soon to be 58-year-old gas bag, is it? (Don’t feel obligated to respond to that particular question.)

Life can be so stressful. I am reminded of the words of Moses: “…even the best of [our 70 - 80 years] is filled with pain and trouble; soon they disappear, and we are gone” Ps.90:10.

Even with a 20-cent dipping sauce, it’s best to keep a biblical perspective.

At one point, a two lane road divides into a turn lane and a lane going straight ahead. This is a recent traffic change that caused a bit of confusion with some drivers until they figured out you need to be in the right lane to go straight.

Only now more than a few drivers will stay in the turn lane and move over to the other lane at the last minute just to get ahead of the other drivers wanting to go straight. And, of course, they believe if they have a turn signal on, then they have the right of way and will cut you off in a heartbeat to get in front of you.

My natural inclination is to not let them but me off. Even to the point of riding the bumper of the car ahead of me. I know, it’s not the most mature response, and people out here have been shot for lesser traffic “crimes” against aggressive drivers. To me, it’s a matter of principle.

Only yesterday, when a driver in a red van had to slow down enough to slip in behind me, he saw on my back window a car decal: Chorus Church. Help. Hope. Home.

I wonder what he thought?

I wonder if I should remove the decal or become a more courteous driver?

And now for today’s blog . . .

I grew up in a family that regularly used chiropractic as a part of our medical treatment. And I remember people, including family, thinking we were just weird for even considering the benefit of a chiropractic adjustment.

Interestingly, when our children were small, they had regular chiropractic adjustments that completely got rid of Jessica’s croup and helped Josh avoid braces for his feet, which the MDs said were necessary if we wanted his feet to straighten out.

Jessica’s first chiropractic adjustment was done while Janice was holding her in her arms, standing in line at some store. Jessica was probably not even six months old at the time. A man in line behind us asked about her symptoms and introduced himself as a local chiropractor. He offered to adjust her there on the spot while Janice held her. Jess never had those symptoms again and he became our primary physician (and a good friend) for 8 years.

This past Thursday evening, I was about to load up the car with my guitar, amp, effects board, etc. for praise band rehearsal when I got cold. I thought I was just cold, but I quickly realized I was having chills. Then a low grade fever and body aches. I let our worship leader know I would not be showing up and spent the night shivering or throwing off covers. This last through Saturday.

Sunday morning I woke up with my back hurting right between the shoulder blades and down the center of my spine. I could not lie, sit, or stand with out pain. A lot of pain.

Sunday morning at worship I was miserable. No matter how I tried, there was simply no relief.

As I was leaving, I ran into a friend and she asked how I was doing. She is a retired veterinarian and I mentioned that I was hurting. (I figured being the horses rear end that I can sometimes be, why not seek the medical advice of a veterinarian? Couldn’t hurt any more than my back was hurting.) She asked about the pain and when I told her, she said, “You should let (her husband’s name) rake you. It really works.”

I had no idea of what she spoke, so I asked and she said it was a technique for transferring energy. He happens to be quite famous in this area for his work in animal rescue, particularly when an animal has to be lifted from a canyon by helicopter … he is generally the guy who goes down into the canyon, calms the animal, and secures it to a harness for the rescue.

He agreed to rake my back and I sat on a chair in the corner of the multi-purpose room where we meet for worship. He placed his hands on my back and said, “There’s a lot of heat in your back.” He held his hands there for several minutes. I could feel my back getting warmer and warmer.

Then he removed his hands. I had no idea what he was doing because I am not a female elementary school teacher, therefore I do not have eyes in the back of my head. But people walking by were giving us very strange looks!

Now and then I noticed his hands out to the side of my body, but close to my body, as he moved them around my back.

This went on for maybe 10 minutes. Long enough for a lot of people to give us strange looks, particularly one of my fellow-elders!

But I suddenly noticed that for those minutes I had been able to sit still. I stood up and still had a small amount of pain in my back, same location, but nothing as intense as it had been all morning.

Even now, as I type this, it’s been about 45 minutes and I still have great relief from the pain earlier in the day.

So call me weird. And let the people give me all the strange looks they want, but whatever he did, no matter how mystical, did something to the pain in my back that has given me some much needed relief.

Now if I can just find an effective way to remove a non-cancerous mole from my shoulder. Over on FaceBook someone recommended a shot gun. Another said her dogs got rid of her mole. I’m looking for a little less dramatic treatment!

I remember thinking (in a Christian sort of way), “Geez, Lady, give it a rest,” or something equally spiritual and mature.

Fast forward to 2011. New place in my life. New church family. New (and very different) responsibilities and role in this church family. And I find myself more and more like the lady at the worship conference.

We listen to Contemporary Christian music each morning while getting ready for work and one song I detest has a chorus with the following non-words repeated over and over and over and over and . . . “Na na na na na na na.” The song is “Waves of Mercy,” by David Crowder Band. If it’s among your favorite songs, I really don’t care … bless your heart.

Somehow, I just don’t think God is really impressed with a group of people, in the guise of worship, singing to Him over and over and over and over the non-sensical “na na na na na na na.” Or perhaps I’m just not spiritually mature enough to “get it.”

Sunday I’m in the praise band as a vocalist (background) and guitarist. We’re doing a song by Chris Tomlin, one of my favorite artists, but the bridge to the song has us singing “Whoa, whoa,” over and over and over and over and over.

Again, I just don’t see that as something that particular impresses God and certainly does nothing for me in my attempt to praise Him. But Janice can’t wait for that moment in that song. She’ll be on the back row (where we normally sit) doing all she can to make eye contact with me and probably being very animated just to let me know that she knows I am not enjoyeing that particular moment of the worship service.

And I’ll be thinking, “Geez, Lady, give it a rest,” or something equally spiritual and mature.

I have a close and dear friend from Long Beach (wallysdad in my comments, but let’s not point fingers) who remembers three particular sermons from my nearly 15 years of preaching there. In those sermons, I either made a linguistic faux pas or I used a “well known” Southern saying that wasn’t as well-known as I had assumed. Three statements out of 15 years of preaching!

Recently I taught on Sunday at our church and I used a “well-known” Southern statement about “a hair in a biscuit.” From the comments since then, you would think I got up on stage, used that statement in a sentence, and sat down!

I’m teaching again in March and I promised to stick with the text and not use Southern colloquialisms. Sort of a self-imposed probation.

Must a linguistic faux pas hang with you like a hair in a biscuit?

I did go to some web site just to see who was nominated for what, and a list of the winners. With few exceptions, I’d never heard of any of these people. And if the half time performance of this year’s Super Bowl was any indication of the kind of “music” presented at the Grammy Awards, I’m not interested.

When I was a student at Lipscomb (back when they still used his first name, David, and it was merely a college) and a member of Alpha Kappa Psi Fraternity, we were invited to work as Valet Attendants at the 1972 Grammy Awards, held in Nashville. I remember the “Concert for Bangladesh” won some awards and Ringo Starr was present to accept on behalf of George Harrison and other artists on that album.

Helen Reddy won a Grammy for I Am Woman and made some comment to the effect, “I’d like to thank God for she makes all things possible.” That didn’t fly in Nashville, Tennessee! The crowd responded with a collective groan.

The Fifth Dimension sang their hit (from 1969, I think), Aquarius: Let the Sunshine In. What I remember most was the fascination with the podium / microphone that disappeared below the stage each time an artist was to perform. I’m a simple guy and that was cool.

Oh, and that we ended up not being needed as valet attendants, so it was a free evening of entertainment for us. Though we were warned not to ask for any autographs, one of the guys in the fraternity got Ringo’s autograph. I’ve never thought of Ringo as much of a star (no pun intended) and have never been impressed with him as a drummer or a singer, so I didn’t even see the autograph.

These days? I am vaguely familiar with a few of the “artists.” I know Lady Gaga is a walking freak show, and the fact that she is a celebrity and very wealthy is a sad commentary on our culture. As for the likes of Bruno Mars, B.o.B., Drake, Jay Z, Cee Lo, The Black Keys …. ??? Never heard of them and am not interested in their songs.

For this Southern boy, I find myself listening more and more t0 country. Sunday night was as good a night as any to ignore music’s great award celebration.

My parents hated the music of our generation … I think I have become my parents. Yikes!

So I’ve been less than gracious at times. My son goes so far as to say I’m just a grumpy guy, but that’s not true. There are random moments in any given week when I AM NOT GRUMPY! (Sorry about that … got a little carried away, but you get my point. YOU DO GET MY POINT, RIGHT?)

One in particular was at a Burger King in Long Beach. I swore I’d never go there again. And for a couple of days, I didn’t return. So now when I get frustrated with a fast food place, Josh will say, “I suppose you’re never coming back here again?” And usually for a day or two, I don’t return. I have my integrity.

Most recently was at the local McDs. I ordered a Southern Fried Chicken sandwich meal which, by the way, is more expensive than the chicken nugget meal. Keep that thought on hold.

Every other fast food place that serves a chicken sandwich will gladly, and free of extra charge, give you a dipping sauce for the sandwich. I always ask for honey mustard and use a little of that in place of mayo. Every other fast food place except … you guessed it. McDonald’s.

So when I asked for a honey mustard sauce for my sandwich, I was informed it would cost me extra. I said, “Even though this meal is more expensive than a mcnugget meal, you’re going to charge me extra for a sauce? For just one sauce?”

“Yes.”

I made a comment about their policy and went to the table. A bit grumpy … but only a bit. Then I decided to go ask for just a packet of mustard. That was free. I was truly surprised.

Now I bring this up because last week a family came in to plan the funeral of their loved one. When I sat down with them, the daughter said, “I know you … you come to our restaurant all the time.” Well, I don’t go there all the time, but I do go frequently.

She knows me from a fast food restaurant … that could potentially be bad. When I asked where she worked, you can only imagine my relief when it was not McDs. I asked, “When I’ve been in there, have I basically been a nice person?” She assured me I had always been nice.

Whew! That was too close for comfort.

So I’m working on my attitude. Want proof?

Friday night I was half way home (after being late leaving the office) when I called Janice to tell her I was on my way. She told me to turn around and go get the van, we had a pick-up in Hemet, which is out beyond our house. So I turned around and faced the Friday night traffic … again … to get the van.

On the way home a man cut me off, narrowly missing my front bumper. To my total and absolute surprise, I didn’t lay down on the horn. If you are not impressed, you just don’t know me.

Then, as if that’s not proof enough, I dropped Jan off and went down to the mortuary to get my car and another guy cut me off, coming across two lanes of traffic to get onto the southbound 15 freeway, narrowly missing my front bumper. My hand instinctively went to the horn, but I stopped just short of laying on it with all my weight!

The amount of restraint shown on two occasions in one night … I was astonished.

I’m really trying to work on my behavior in public. When you’re a grumpy, soon to be 58 year old, almost always in pain, and never having enough sleep old gas bag, it’s not easy.