mostlyfrommemory

200: A Milestone in Writing

This is my 200th article for what began in 2016 as Mostly From Memory, a blog where I started sharing short essays on my memories from growing up in a small town in Alabama. Since the statute of limitations has not run out on a few events, I am kind of out of material for the childhood stuff unless I want to run the risk of getting sued. Or I could start making stuff up. Which is how I think that some authors get into fiction. You take a piece of story that really happened, but you change the names of the people and move the location to somewhere far off like Pell City, Alabama, and describe some of the characters as prettier or uglier than they really were and add some extra details like an embezzling scheme, a murder, and some romance or dragons to spice up the plot a little bit. You know, just like cooking. You begin with a chicken breast—that’s the part that really happened—but it could really hurt someone if you serve it raw. The fiction part comes in with how you decide to present it: grilled, fried, boiled, fricasseed… And a good cook can make just about anything palatable, if not spectacular.

I haven’t gotten into fiction yet, but I have branched out and written about a lot of topics like grief, obituaries, music, biographical sketches, and social and cultural constructs, and how to overcome them. It is this sort of material that I am drawn to write about.

This makes me ask the question, has my writing style changed? I think it has changed in the same way that a person ages. If a man is still talking and behaving like a 20 year old at 40 then I think you would agree that something is off. And when a 40 year old takes measures to alter their physical features to appear 20, whether people pretend along with them or not, we all know that it is fake. I feel that my writing has aged with me.

And maybe my readers have come and gone just like friends in different in different stages of life. I may have lost some of my readers when my material shifted, and that is understandable. Just like when you take the last bicycle ride with your neighbor who is getting his driver’s license the next week. You’re still friends, but he is going places you can’t go now. And you spend less time together. Then when you get your license, you’ll probably go to different places than he went. And you meet new people who are less interested in your past than they are your future.

I did a lot of looking back when I first started writing. I felt the need to put some of those oral stories into writing. I am glad I did because I didn’t realize how quickly my sources would move on without warning to a place that I can’t go yet, taking their oral stories with them. I have been looking inward a lot of my recent material. But I am trying to practice looking out.

I think I am beginning to understand why older people say less.

If you have been with me since the beginning, thank you. You may not have noticed the shift because you’ve grown with me. But if you are an occasional reader, you may have noticed changes just like your great-aunt noticed when she only saw you twice a year at Easter and Christmas. And I guess that is what I want to talk about today: I really just want to write articles that make people want to think about things that matter.

I think people matter. I think how you treat people matters. I think motives and attitude matters. I think education matters. I think that morals matter. I think that mental health matters. I think that physical health matters.

Above all, I think truth matters.

Dementia

“Mr. Zane, that little old lady back there doesn’t even know her name. All she does is mumble, but she just sang I Saw The Light along with you.”

I have been blessed with a unique opportunity to sing at the nursing home as a part of my job. I have lost count of how many nursing homes I have visited. One of the most interesting and moving experiences I have had so far is singing in the memory care units. The memory care units I have visited have been in assisted living centers, not nursing homes, and are for residents who are dealing with memory loss due to Alzheimers or dementia. These units are usually locked down so the residents won’t wonder off and get lost. As I am being escorted through the halls, the workers always try to mentally prepare me for what I might expect as they punch in secret codes that take us deep into heart of the building. They don’t realize that that kind of stuff doesn’t bother me. I’ve probably been to more nursing homes than they have, and even preached at the Methodist church. I always keep my eyes closed while I’m singing anyway.

I’m not a licensed music therapist, but I have seen the power of music first hand. When the director of the unit walks up bawling after a concert and says things like, I’ve never seen that man talk before after the man just talked to me for three minutes. Or There is a little old lady back there that doesn’t even know her name. All she does is mumble, but she just sang I Saw The Light along with you. This kind of thing happens often. I cannot tell you what these people are diagnosed with, but I can tell you that there is a moment when the light comes on in their eyes. And it is a moving experience.

I often leave from these brief concerts thinking about those people, locked up in a wing of some multimillion dollar facility. Each person represents a heart wrenching story of children coming to grips with a parent whose mental state has deteriorated to an unrecognizable point. When did the children notice? Did their parent, who once possessed a sharp intellect and a profound pool of wisdom become foggy in their memory and erratic in judgment? Was there a sudden change in personality from a caring and compassionate nurturer to a mean and selfish miser, or was the change gradual? At what point did a brother call a sister and say, I think something is going on with Dad? And I wonder about perhaps the hardest conversation of all, Dad, we’re concerned about you, I think we need to get you some help.

I imagine a lot of that depends on the state of the relationship between children and parents. Disfunction, strained relationships, and estrangement is the sad reality for many families, and would make an already extremely difficult situation nearly impossible to navigate.

I have talked to quite a few people who have had this experience with a parent. They tell me that looking back they could remember odd changes in behavior from years before that now made sense. They talk about the parent leaving long before the body expired. And the sense of relief after their parents’ death, accompanied by a slight sense of guilt for being relieved. They also speak of the relief of knowing that the unkind words spoken to them were the disease and not the parent.

These are all the things I think about when I tune up my guitar in a memory care unit. I look for that light to come on. I try to sing a wide variety of hymns and gospel songs in hopes that one of them will resonate with a lingering memory behind a set of blank eyes. I also am painfully aware that I may not be able to reach someone if they have no memories of any of these spiritual songs. Or maybe the music has already died and there is no recalling them.

I sing anyway. I never know who is listening.

Neighbor, How Big is Your World?

I grew up in a small town, but for most of my adult life I’ve lived and worked in suburban areas. Having experienced both, I now live in the tension of wanting the business of a city and the quietness of the country. I imagine you could draw lines and each side could argue until Kingdom Come-I’m not trying to do that today- but I am going to endeavor to expose some aspects of human nature common to every one of us, but I tend to notice more in rural areas. Perhaps because it is hard to be anonymous in a small town where character and actions seem to be magnified. This is not an indictment of small town life, nor an endorsement of city life, but an honest attempt at addressing selfishness.

We have a couple of interesting words for selfish thinking: egocentrism-that is, the world revolves around me, and ethnocentrism-the world revolves around people like me. In a small town, it is easy to forget-or never even realize-that there is a world, indeed a much bigger world, beyond the city limits, or property lines. No matter how big the town, a small world is the breeding ground for self-centered thinking.

More people live in the city of Delhi, India than in the whole state of Texas.

I heard a lot about worldview in college. It was good for me, a country boy from central Alabama to learn things like American football is not even in the top 10 most popular sports in the world. That not everyone is an American. It challenged my worldview when I made friends with people who grew up in foreign places like Canada, Mexico, Thailand, Jamaica, South Africa, and California.

Jesus addresses egocentrism and ethnocentrism in the parable of the Good Samaritan. When we ask Who is my neighbor? We are asking, How big does my world really have to be?

Luke 10:²⁵And, behold, a certain lawyer stood up, and tempted him, saying, Master, what shall I do to inherit eternal life?

²⁶He said unto him, What is written in the law? how readest thou?

²⁷And he answering said, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength, and with all thy mind; and thy neighbour as thyself.

²⁸And he said unto him, Thou hast answered right: this do, and thou shalt live.

²⁹But he, willing to justify himself, said unto Jesus, And who is my neighbour?

More can be said of the story of the Good Samaritan than I am capable of writing. It is the story of humanity and I implore you to read it. The fall of man has left us in a cruel world, half dead, without help, until an outsider came along and saved us. Jesus did not have to show us mercy, but that is what neighbors do.

Luke 10:³⁶Which now of these three, thinkest thou, was neighbour unto him that fell among the thieves?

³⁷And he said, He that shewed mercy on him. Then said Jesus unto him, Go, and do thou likewise.

When I was a little boy I thought that my only neighbors were Rob and Karen, my next door neighbors. But there was a man in our church that challenged that mindset in the manner that he greeted people: “Howdy neighbor.” I remember my Dad preaching a message about this using the above text. I think about this whenever I read this portion of scripture. With a child’s understanding I began to realize every human on the planet is my neighbor.

This kind of broader thinking is often limited by human constructs that manifest as national pride, political ideologies, regional traditions, and even things as simple as sports team preference. It is hard for many people to break out of these constructs and see other people as humans, much less neighbors.

How we view and treat other people is linked to eternal life.

It is a question that we will be unable to avoid in the judgement: How big was your world?

Matthew 25:³⁴Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world:

³⁵For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in:

³⁶Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me.

³⁷Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink?

³⁸When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed thee?

³⁹Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee?

⁴⁰And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.

Available Music

“Give me a guitar lesson Dad.” Hollynn demanded earlier this week. So I sat her on my lap and showed her the difference between a downstroke and an upstroke. We then had to back up and learn how to hold the pick. I’m not sure if there is a right way or a wrong way to hold a pick. Maybe there is just a faster or slower way. Or a more accurate way.

I didn’t get into all of that, I just showed her how to hold the pick to make the strokes easier for her. I didn’t show her how to make guitar face though. That comes natural with concentration.

I had a student calling the pick a “chip” the other day. That was a first for me.

It was a nice to see her show interest in the guitar, although she does tell me this quite often, “Let’s look at guitars on your phone Dad.” Maybe she’ll end up playing, it is hard to know. I certainly won’t discourage it.

How do you know if your child is going to stick with an instrument? This is the kind of question that parents are really asking when they ask for guitar recommendations. It is an economic question, will I get a return on my investment, or will this be money blown? Do parents ask those questions when they are shopping for video game consoles?

Yo Yo Ma, one of the most recognizable classical musicians in the world and possibly the only cellist that many can even name, didn’t arrive at the cello until he sampled the violin and the piano. I have also witnessed parents force an instrument on a child and the child never fully embrace it.

Whether or not she will play guitar or not doesn’t really matter, but the important thing right now is she has access to the guitar. I think it is good to make a lot of things available to children: books, art supplies, and musical instruments.

When I was her age, the guitar was not available to me. I was allowed the occasional glimpse at my Dan Dan’s old guitar. It was like visiting a museum: look, but don’t touch. It was purchased for him very dearly by my Gram back in the 70s, and he babied it until he died. After that, the guitar transitioned from a musical instrument into an heirloom.

I understand that feeling of wanting to take care of an instrument, especially if it cost a lot of money. I once picked up my unlatched guitar case after youth service, and my Martin fell out onto the floor with a kerang and a sickening crack. I quickly surveyed the damage: a severe case of case bite—where the guitar finish is marred by the metal latches that protrude along the edge of the case. I was sick to my stomach for weeks every time I looked at the case that I was too afraid to open.

I don’t let the kids wail on a few of my more valuable guitars without supervision from me, but I do let them play on them. There are other guitars just laying around the house that anyone is free to pick up and plink around on. We keep an eye out for any used musical instruments at thrift stores and yard sales for this purpose and view it as an investment in our children’s music education. I believe that Hollynn’s request for a guitar lesson is a direct result of familiarity with the instrument. For her whole life guitars have been a part of the furniture in our home.

She just had another lesson. It only lasted about three minutes, but she did show some improvement in her fine motor skills. If that is the most she gets out of guitar lessons then I think buying that old guitar at the thrift store for $7 was money well spent.

I have a drum student who doesn’t even own a set of drums. Fortunately, he lives very close to the church, where drums are available. I think he’ll end up owning a set pretty soon at the rate that he is catching on. I am sure that his parents fully understand the risk of buying an expensive set of drums on the chance that he will learn, especially if neither one of them knows how to teach him. And that brings us back to the question, How do I know if my child is going to stick with an instrument? The answer is, you don’t. But they will have a much slimmer chance if you don’t make instruments available.

It is our goal to create an atmosphere of learning at home. Creative play and curiosity are some of the most natural ways to learn. So buy that old thrift store keyboard and don’t treat it too precious when the child explores on it.

Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it. Proverbs 22:6 KJV

Train up a child in the way he should go [teaching him to seek God’s wisdom and will for his abilities and talents], Even when he is old he will not depart from it. Proverbs 22:6 AMP

If you have a child showing interest in music lessons and are unsure where to start, contact me at zanewells@yahoo.com for a free consultation.

Fog

I had to drive in the fog this week. I’m not talking about the kind of patchy fog you drive through while you’re crossing a bridge and then you are back in the sunshine. No. I drove for two and a half hours through the kind of fog in which Edgar Allan Poe set all of his stories. At least that’s the thick fog that I imagine when I read him. So naturally, I decided to do some drive-by photography. I love a good foggy morning; it makes me feel like Sherlock Holmes. A damp haze like this gives me a craving for a good mystery. For whatever reason, fog pulls on my creative nature. I was feeling pretty inspired and artistic in this dreamy landscape until I passed a big chicken truck that had turned over in the ditch just outside of Natchitoches. That wreck halted my daydreaming and caused me to slow down and give my undivided attention to the road, at least for a little while. Then I began to wonder if any of those chickens made their escape into the mist. I hope they did. I love a good escape story as much as I love a foggy morning. Maybe they took up with the herons in the swamp.

As much as the fog tugs on my imagination, I’m glad that it isn’t foggy all of the time. It can be stressful when you cannot see very far ahead of you. I imagine that’s what happened to that poor truck driver. He probably had to take evasive action to avoid killing someone he only saw at the last split second. Who knows?

The wrecked truck reminded me of something I learned about as a teenager following the progress of Operation Iraqi Freedom in the newspaper; The Fog of War. Originally a German term, it describes how the chaos of battle brings confusion and situational uncertainty to soldiers—and even top brass—who often become disoriented and are unsure of what to do next. I have never been in combat, but I have been in a lot of fog, and I can appreciate the analogy. My cousin Mark got disoriented in the fog on the Coosa River once during a fishing tournament. He navigated his bass boat by GPS right up out of the river and into the woods. I think the problem with disorientation is you don’t know you are disoriented until it is too late.

The vicissitudes of life can put us in a fog. The beauty of that fog and the creativity that it inspires is hardly ever seen in the moment except by the rare longsighted optimists, or the visionaries who are gifts to humanity. The rest of us only see the beauty in hindsight-that is if we make it through. There have been a few-and thank God only a few-truly foggy patches in my life. Times when you can only see as far as the next step and you aren’t fully sure of that; when you have all but lost direction; and when the mist has nearly halted any progress you thought you were making. It may take a while, but eventually we can look back and see the beauty of those times. And, with a twinkle in our eye and compassion in our voice, even recall them with joy and hope, and tell about them to someone going through their own fog.

We are often tossed and driven on the restless seas of time

Somber skies and howling tempests oft succeed the bright sunshine

But in that land of perfect day, when the mist has rolled away

We will understand it better by and by

This fog the other day covered a large swath of Louisiana. A friend who was working on the other side of the State that morning was telling me how foggy it was for him too. I’m glad I wasn’t in it alone. Eventually the fog “burnt off” as he put it, and it turned out to be a bright sunny day. But I’m glad I got these pictures. I didn’t want you to think I was exaggerating.

All Quiet on Pew Number Five

There was a wedding at church on Saturday.

There was a wedding at church on Saturday. The kind without all the fuss of rehearsal dinners. Or rehearsals. Or the hassle of getting a hotel room. No frivolity, just a simple wedding like I remembered when I was a kid, with cake and punch in the church foyer. I really like these kind of weddings.

As my family sat in the pew on the Bride’s side waiting for the wedding to start, I noticed that it was uncommonly quiet for our church. Even the children were whispering. At least some of them. You can almost hear what your neighbors are thinking when it is that quiet. But that is what the Bride wanted, no filler music that didn’t mean anything. Just one song to walk in with.

Silence makes some people uncomfortable. And uncomfortable people make the rest of us uncomfortable. But I like quiet places. A lot more than I like canned mosquito music that nobody asked to listen to, or TV noise. I like to be able to hear the ticking of my watch. I like to hear the birds singing outside. Most of all I like being able to hear myself think.

“Quiet as a church? If had a car that sounded like my church, I wouldn’t drive it out of the driveway.”

-Tom Trimble

As I sat there on the pew, hardly daring to whisper, I thought about how much racket I normally make at church. I have blown three speakers while playing guitar at church. Now I’m not proud of that, because it was expensive, but probably some of the loudest moments in my life were at church. But there we were, sitting on the pew trying not breath too heavily so as not to disturb the quiet. It was so peaceful. I think I’ll slip up there again soon when no one is there and just listen to the silence.

Magazines

I think that it is healthy to have hobbies or areas of interest.

I just finished reading A Hunter’s Fireside Book: Tales of Dogs, Ducks, Birds & Guns by Gene Hill. If you were not aware, I am not a hunter, but I appreciate good writing no matter the subject-within reason of course. Good writing can make even the most boring pastime seem interesting. While I don’t necessarily think hunting boring, I do think Gene Hill was a good writer. And I really enjoyed the book. This book was a collection of columns he wrote for various outdoor magazines in the 60s and 70s. I can understand how readers felt when they got a new magazine and turned straight to where they knew his column could be found. He finished his career as full-time columnist for Field & Stream magazine. He died in 1997. All of this reminded me of how much magazines used to be a part of my life.

Zach had a big pile of second hand Field & Stream magazines that he procured from the thrift store. I used to read them too, and I didn’t really care for hunting or fishing then either. But the stories were interesting. And so were the ads. We’d stare at those rifles. Or think of how much fun we could have with one of those 6 wheeled amphibious ATVs in the tiny black and white ad spots in the very back of the magazine.

There was another author that wrote a lot for Field & Stream, Patrick McManus. We had some of his books, but those second hand magazines from his era would’ve been worn out a long time before they could be found by a country boy at a thrift store.

Every once in a while Mom would buy us a bunch of National Geographic magazines from the thrift store or a yard sale. We even had a subscription on and off throughout my life. I loved those old magazines. The pictures were so interesting that you wanted to read the articles. I still want to go to see some of the places that I discovered reading those old yellow magazines; Angkor Wat, Easter Island, New Guinea, Hong Kong, India…Steve McCurry and Rudyard Kipling have taken me to India so many times that I would like to go in person some day. The advertisements in National Geographic were quite a bit different than the ads in Field & Stream. I distinctly remember the Rolex (specifically the Milgauss) and Canon ads. It was also interesting to see ads for new cars that you had only ever known as old.

I think that it is healthy to have hobbies or areas of interest.

Mom subscribed to Traditional Home. Those ads made me realize that we were in fact, poor. But I loved looking at the floor plans of those high dollar houses. That magazine also gave me an appreciation for interior design. It is hard to condense 15 years of reading a decorating and design magazine into a single sentence or even paragraph other than to say that poor design choices still bother me.

I guess the only guitar magazine that I have ever subscribed to was Premier Guitar. For the longest time I liked them because they never had people on the cover, just guitars. That changed when BB King died. I have stopped subscribing because I think the editor is a smart alec. Even so, whenever a new guitar student asked me a question about say, what a phaser pedal does, I have to work hard to keep from giving them a 5 page report with works cited and audio clips because they really want a brief AI answer, not a research paper, or even a magazine article.

I think that it is healthy to have hobbies or areas of interest.

Magazines were how I discovered a lot of things, like how to identify a quality piece of furniture. And where I learned a lot of guitar and gardening techniques. I started eating honey and gorgonzola cheese on crackers because I read it in a magazine. I learned how to intonate guitars and marinate grouse in magazines. I still haven’t marinated any grouse though, but I can intonate your guitar for $45 if you’re in the Jena area.

Some magazines would print corrections from previous articles. I liked that. I like it when things are made right. It also was a good reminder that real people worked to put together the magazine. I also liked that more than likely a reader caught the mistake. Sometimes a magazine would post a letter from a reader and it was as interesting to read as one of the regular staff writers. What a cool career writing for a magazine would be.

Superman could’ve picked any job he wanted as a cover, but he picked journalism.

I suppose that some people still subscribe to magazines, but I’m not sure who they are. I imagine that your social media algorithm is a good representation of what your magazine rack might’ve looked like 40 years ago. One nice thing about that is information is more readily available. I’m not sure that social media can quite replicate the feeling of seeing a magazine in the mailbox.

Some Thoughts on Truth

Resisting the truth is what keeps many conflicts alive.

While I was working my way through college I noticed a phenomenon that happened with alarming frequency. Things that I had been taught in high school as fact were now being challenged and subjected to heavy source criticism.

Post-truth: relating to or denoting circumstances in which objective facts are less influential in shaping public opinion than appeals to emotion and personal belief.

It was the Oxford Dictionaries word of the year in 2016.

“Never have human societies known so much…but agreed so little about what they collectively know.”
Dan Kahan, psychology and law professor

It is safe to say that we live in a post-truth society. What does this mean for the Church? As Christians we are people who are very concerned with truth and how we view truth is a matter of grave importance. This is in no way an exhaustive work, but a mere peering into mirrored surface of the profound pool of truth.

Truth can be known.

Jesus said in John 8:31 “…And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”

You cannot know a lie. Neither do lies bring freedom. You can only believe a lie.

But truth is knowable. It is stable foundation that can built upon. When everything is falling apart in your life you can cling to something that you know is true.

You can know this today: There is a God who loves you.

Truth must be purchased.

While there is some truth that can be immediately transmitted into our knowledge, truth must be purchased; sought out. You have to get it for yourself, not just because some body told you.

Buy the truth, and sell it not; also wisdom, and instruction, and understanding. Proverbs 23:23

In order to be purchased, truth must be valued. You will not purchase something that you do not think is valuable. Lies can also be purchased. What people value determines the market. Truth is precious. It is rare. Lies have no value. Unfortunately, many unsuspecting-or rather undiscerning-people have been sold so many lies at immense costs.

What you value matters to God. The highest level of value is love. If you do not love truth, God will hide it from you.

II Thessalonians 2:8-12 And then shall that Wicked be revealed, whom the Lord shall consume with the spirit of his mouth, and shall destroy with the brightness of his coming: Even him, whose coming is after the working of Satan with all power and signs and lying wonders, And with all deceivableness of unrighteousness in them that perish; because they received not the love of the truth, that they might be saved. And for this cause God shall send them strong delusion, that they should believe a lie: That they all might be damned who believed not the truth, but had pleasure in unrighteousness.

Truth Demands a Response.

Response to truth is reflected in behavior. When truth is resisted corrupt behavior is manifested.

II Timothy 3:1 This know also, that in the last days perilous times shall come. For men shall be lovers of their own selves, covetous, boasters, proud, blasphemers, disobedient to parents, unthankful, unholy, without natural affection, trucebreakers, false accusers, incontinent, fierce, despisers of those that are good, traitors, heady, highminded, lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God; Having a form of godliness, but denying the power thereof: from such turn away. For of this sort are they which creep into houses, and lead captive silly women laden with sins, led away with divers lusts, Ever learning, and never able to come to the knowledge of the truth. Now as Jannes and Jambres withstood Moses, so do these also resist the truth: men of corrupt minds, reprobate concerning the faith.

Truth will always be resisted, and as time draws near to the end, it will be resisted more. People will always try to hide the truth, and it will be reflected in their fruit.

Truth is Liberating.

John 8:31 “…And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”

With truth comes a freedom that nothing else can bring. Hiding the truth breeds fear. There is nothing to fear when you can tell the truth.

If you tell the truth, you won’t have to worry about someone else telling it.

New Beginnings

I burnt off half of my yard earlier this year. Because I did not want to mow it, I allowed the brush to grow up to the point where I could not mow it. While it is not the only way to tidy up a yard, burning is perhaps the best way to begin a clean start. It is a conflicting feeling to watch the fire take over the yard. The flames will not selectively burn just the overgrown, stubborn weeds that have begun to harden into pithy stalks, it also consumes the tender grass. And then there is the waiting. And in the waiting the questions. How long will this lay waste in ashes? Will it come back?

It does come back. And better.

This is a follow up to Controlled Burn.

Rev. Oliver Murray

I got the news this week that Bro. Murray had passed on. He was my childhood pastor. The man that baptized me in the horse trough on an Alabama September night in 1994.

I remember him driving to my house in the middle of the night to pray for me when I was about three years old. I was running a fever, probably giving my Mom fits, and I guess I wasn’t having any of that pray over the phone nonsense, I wanted the real thing. But he came and prayed for me and I promptly went to sleep, so I am told. He was a man of faith and a prayerful man.

When I think about Bro. Murray I think of a couple of songs that he loved to sing: Learning to Lean, and Reach Out and Touch the Lord as He Goes By.

We may not have had a lot of music at that little church, just Sis. Vivian and an upright Kimball Piano, but I guess just about everyone could sing on key. Something extraordinary that I took for granted. And Bro. Murray sang well. He had a rich baritone voice. A man’s voice.

As I sit here reminiscing about being a little lad at church I can hear his voice…

Learning to Lean…Learning to Lean, I’m learning to Lean on Jesus…finding more power than I’ve ever dreamed, learning to lean on Jesus.

I’ll probably always hear his voice in that song. And that is comforting.