this might get a little dangerous...

life is a lot like riding a bicycle... especially that part where you wipe out in front of a pretty girl.

[thismightgetalittledangerous]

Getting the Picture

The last few weeks of quarentine, my dad’s been sorting old photos.

Translation? He’s digging up every embarrassing shot I’ve ever taken and using them for a good laugh at my expense.

Lucky me. 

If you’re really looking, each image here tells quite a lot about where I was and how I was doing when the pic was snapped.

I’m first to admit that’s not always flattering.

But no single snapshot makes a man, right? 

At least that’s what I tell myself—that I am more than what someone captured in a single moment along the increasingly protracted arc of my life.

I dont know about you but, for me, there’s relief in that knowledge. 

There’s hope, too.

But no matter what I tell myself about single impressions and the sum of a man’s character, the words neither assuage nor abolish my deep and abiding fear that the truth runs to the contrary.

Fear for the growing disparity between the man I think I am and what a series of snapshots might convey.

Fear that some people who made their way into my world for a little while only got one image, an unfavorable memory of me from some unguarded or mishandled moment that’s been carried in their mind and counted as the full compliment of my character and capacity.

Fear that, if I’m not careful, the arc of my life might stop short before I’ve seized every opportunity for at least a handful of images that reflect who I’d like to think I really am… and am becoming.

It’s heavy thinking for a Monday, I know. It’s a lot to ascribe to some snapshots for the Instas during quarantine. 

But it’s been a heavy few days, honestly.

I lost a dear friend last week—the day after my birthday.

It was shockingly sudden and remains simply incomprehensible. You see, heart failure seems impossible for a man who, through every moment of his 48 years, was all heart.

I know because I was around for all but the first fourteen of those years. I know because, each snapshot and every memory from him portrays the same goodwill, the same joy, the same peace, the same smile.

I wish I could be blessed with such consistent a history and image.

And yet I sat across from Robert a couple months ago, sipping beers together in an Oklahoma sports bar, listening to a man who wanted to change—to ensure a better image of himself for his wife and kids, for as many years as he could muster.

Three months later, he’s gone.

We always think we have time—time to begin, time to change, time to mend, time to outrun, time to become.

Time to update our profile picture.

We predicate our procrastination on the promise of tomorrow when tomorrow is promised to no one.

In my Latin-American beach town, my friends and I joke about putting off the things we need to tend, employing our pueblo’s favorite and most common saying with a chuckle and a dismissive wave of the hand: “mañana, mañana, mañana…”

But today I’m setting that phrase aside, putting it away.

Today, I’m hard at the important work because it needs doing.

Today I’m chiseling away at the mountain of unfinished things I know ought to be done and said.

Today, I’m reconciling the disparity between perception and reality in my life and my intentions.

Today, I’m sifting through dozens of images from my life and history for a certain smile and a light in my eyes that convey everything I want for my epitaph and eulogy. 

Today, I am committing (or recommitting) myself to ensuring those characteristics find themselves into as many future days and moments and memories as I can manage. 

Because tomorrow might not be in the picture.

I sincerely pray I’m remembered and regarded half so well as my friend and brother in his all-too-brief 48 years as son, brother, husband, father, and friend.

Rest easy, brother. Vaya con dios.

[thismightgetalittledangerous]

Sitting at my desk, trying to kick serious quantities of tail on a few projects, but all I can do is think of is this place—the low country—and the people there who I love so much. Maybe it’s the blanket of snow across my front yard and streets, the incessant cold and cabin fever that come with January in Middle Tennessee, or the realization it’s been months since my last run down I-40 to I-26 and southward to my second home. Regardless the reason, something in me longs for Spanish moss draped and hanging like forgotten holiday tinsel from ancient oaks; the intoxicating olfactory admixture of sea salt and pluff mud and time; the tinkling of ice in sweat-stained cocktail glasses wrapped at the base with bev naps and chased with redfish, steamed oysters, soft shells, and “shut-up dogs” (that’s hush puppies, y’all); cracklins and carnitas from freshly-harvested wild hog, boiled for hours over an open fire and lovingly tended by ranch hands, then served from old plywood tables with sawhorse legs, and homemade tortillas and pico de gallo that’ll change your life; afternoon longnecks and lies told ‘round the Formica bar top of a backroad gas station long ago converted into a watering hole and local supper club, where pigs feet and boiled eggs in large jars sit glowing in the yellowed light of beer signs long cracked and discolored by dust and cigarette smoke and years of neglect; bathing in the warm cacophony of music and laughter and dart throws and open flame of a trailer-smoker cookout with Carolina BBQ and bogs and beans and hash and all the culinary wonders of the region; pulling a frosty from an iced-down canoe to wash down a handful of boiled peanuts; the vinegar and pepper bite of pickled okra soaking in a few morning-after, seaside bloodies; wandering for hours through the rows and rows of treasures in my dear friend’s marvelous Walterboro consignment shop on a rainy Sunday afternoon, watching every class and color come through and mingle and laugh and talk like people ought, while classic soul and Allman Brothers and her beloved Leon Russell play overhead and she dances and laughs and glows with the natural radiance of a true southern belle; the way my heart opens wide and my spirit comes into its own the closer my truck gets to the salt, to the ACE basin, to the people there who welcome me graciously and lovingly every time I need to wander their way, each time I need a taste of home.

Yes, I believe it’s time for a low country run.

[thismightgetalittledangerous]

Repost from August 15, 2016

That moment when you read an institution-wide email proclamation and sadly realize that its meaning and import were lost in the tangle of its convoluted prose. It was a muddled message and, in the end, I feel the writer squandered an important opportunity for clarity and persuasion in a crucial moment that wanted real leadership, strong direction.

There’s a tremendous difference between complex and complicated, between intelligent and intellectual. And it’s a shame we so often choose the latter, fooling ourselves into thinking we’re so very elevated and so damned impressive with our high positions and trendy phrasing… when all we’ve proven is that we don’t know we’re about town in our undies. Today I’m reminded that, as a culture, we’ve given up the struggle for meaning in our desire to be heard. We’ve exchanged dialogue for diatribe, inadvertently beating others over the head with our words because we don’t necessarily give a crap anymore about understanding each other so much as we care about being recognized, regarded, or revered.

It’s a shame, really. The glitter of our words should never be more important than what we attempt to convey. We should respect ourselves—let alone our audience—enough to craft ideas and speak into the world with real clarity and decisiveness.

Don't get me wrong, flexing our vocabularies and exercising our fitness of mind are good qualities so long as they never become ends in themselves. And let us never give or expect credence for what’s said in speeches or sermons or blogs or podcasts, simply because the wording is shiny or spoken with feeling.

In this political season, I hope you’ll consider what I’m saying here because the truth is that a philosophy that’s impossible to extrapolate is just as impossible to employ. The one who speaks loudest is not always the strongest. The side with the catchiest slogans does not necessarily possess the wisdom to lead well. The voice that promises all your dreams made real but then lacks the plan to make them so should be avoided at all cost. You see, to take back our country—as so many seem to want these days—we must first take back our reason and our discernment. 

There are still places where your liberty has not been compromised, so don’t be dazzled or fooled into giving it away. Don’t go dizzy-eyed over all you hear. The words of too many who sit in seats of leadership or who have entered the current political fray remind me of something Macbeth described–a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

[thismightgetalittledangerous]

Repost from October 12, 2016

It's been quite some time since I sat on my porch in the evening, sipping and rocking and watching... and listening. It's a favorite past time that's been passed up far too often of late. Always too much to do. So tonight I'm soaking up the change of season for a few minutes... sipping Irish whiskey-spiked Americano from a hand-made Hill Country mug and listening to a good narration of A Tale of Two Cities, all while testing out my new camp pipe, filled to the top with richly spiced tobacco (this ain't East Nashville, people).

Yes, there's work to do--too many tasks calling for my attention and my time. But tonight I am reminded that we move too fast and fill our lives with all the wrong goals and ends and motivations. We treasure and champion the wrong stuff. There's beauty in stillness, in quiet. There's much to be gained in respite and repose. And so, tonight I'm content to make exquisite waste of a perfectly lovely evening.

Join me if you like. 

[thismightgetalittledangerous]

Repost from October 16, 2016

Soaking up the porch for a few minutes and, as I sit in my favorite rocking chair amid the usual cacophony of cricket chirps and car tires, I begin to hear something that is both very new but also very old. As I strain my ear to listen more closely and more clearly, I can pick out four-part gospel harmonies pouring out from the open windows and doors of the tiny missionary baptist church that sits at the end of my block. A few weeks per year the revival banner is draped across their main entrance and the parking lot crowds with cars each evening for worship and renewal... and hours of singing. For the past week I've watched the faithful and the prodigal make their way inside the unassuming red brick box of a meeting house at 7pm sharp for worship, for fellowship, and for the chance to rekindle the flame of faith once more in each other's hearts.

I've sat in those pews. I've shared in their singing. I've prayed along with their congregation. They sing and shout to the Lord with all they have and are. It's as humbling as it is compelling... and it's marvelous to experience and to share. You see, there are no production team and no band to dazzle the congregation with their performance, no recognizable "personality" graces their stage or podium. Aside from an ancient piano in desperate need of tuning, they have no instruments of worship but their voices... and their hearts. Their preacher is a layman who travels here from Knoxville each week and probably doesn't even have a twitter account let alone a book deal. Still, I know firsthand that they don't suffer from their "outdated" and "irrelevant" worship style. They sing so loudly that it honestly hurts my ears at times. They pray out loud from their seats whenever appropriate. Every week their auditorium is transformed into a true sanctuary. They show up early and stay late. They know each other and have broken bread together and helped raise each other's children. They are a sweet and welcoming people who love their God and their neighbors with equal sincerity and vigor, the latter being, for them, a natural and indivorceable offshoot from the former... just as it ought to be. They never take their Bible for a bludgeon. They are not shaken by the evening news or political polls because their faith and hope are in Christ rather than the myth of a Christian America. 

Just to know that kind of community (and that kind of sentiment) still exists without advertisement or fanfare or social media presence blesses my heart beyond words.

And I know the words they are singing: "I'll fly away, o' glory... I'll fly away. When I die, hallelujah by and by, I'll fly away." They are the lines and phrases of my childhood. I can't help but listen... I mouth the words from memory, singing along from my rocking chair a block away. I close my eyes in the cool of the evening and I can almost feel my dear departed grandmother's fingers gently tapping out tempos on the back of my third-grade hands as her unmatched and unforgettable alto voice carries through the auditorium, through the church building I knew as a boy, and onward through all the years and decades I have known since that impressionable time, and now carried here to my porch on this quiet Sunday evening, a distant and beautiful echo from my past.

But I digress a little. :)

Tonight I am reminded that there are power and strength and beauty in human connection more than there ever will be in pomp or presentation. Affect will never trump affection. Sincere reverence and regard for not only our Creator but also for all His creation can and will change lives and communities and even nations... if we give them real opportunity. Those rich seeds, once planted, take root and never leave us, no matter how dormant they seem. All it takes is a quiet moment, a fall breeze, and a familiar refrain from honest lips.

As social media turns more and more into a breeding ground for anger and hatred, and as the "leading" voices of our culture seek to criticize, condemn, and divide, I pray that each of you could have a few minutes on this porch tonight, and feel the way I do right now, listening to my neighbors singing old gospel songs from well-worn hymnals. I pray that we would recover simplicity and sincerity. That we would hang the banner of revival over our doors and our lives. That we would help walk each other, arm in arm, back to our hearts, back to our humanity, back to sincerity and truth and brotherly love. Back to a moment when we could not only recognize ourselves in the mirror but actually liked who we saw there.

That prayer begins tonight and it will continue until swords turn back to plowshares and stones become flesh and spirit once more.

#begoodtoeachother

"Finally, sisters and brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things." 

- Philippians 4:8

[thismightgetalittledangerous]

Repost from March 18, 2017

My junior year in high school I had a lowered blue VW Bug with crank sunroof, centerline rims, nerf bars, and a race engine that my dad and I installed in our garage. Every school morning my neighbor, Bob Jason, and I piled into my hot rod, cranked back the sunroof, and cranked up the stereo. And every morning we played the same Chuck Berry song for the drive: "No Particular Place to Go." Those were good days--golden days. And that was great music. Thank you, Mr. Berry. We sure thought we were bad motor scooters... but you were the real deal, sir. May you rest in peace.

[thismightgetalittledangerous]

This Land Was Your Land

Why the battle over public lands is one sportsmen must win

Repost from May 2, 2017

Edmund Burke said it best: "The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing." Friends, to assume this matter will settle itself--that the preservation of this heritage will prevail simply because it ought to--is naive at best and dangerous at worst. You see, this is not just about protecting where we hunt and fish and camp and swim (or sprain one's ankle, as I did on a trail Sunday afternoon)... it is about checking the impetuous and relatively unfettered encroachment of aggressive and unprincipled parties. Parties who have somehow successfully wrapped themselves in the false flags of progress and liberty, all while perpetuating acts meant to pilfer, plunder, and profit take. This concession enriches the few at the expense of many. 

Still, this is a matter of principle rather than party; this moment demands courage and conviction over politics and punditry. Sadly there are few in that arena who have not treated us as means to their personal ends, and fewer still are those who have championed our causes no matter their personal cost. Therefore it is time we see that this thing is ours to do if it is to be done at all.

"A little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to rest, and poverty will come upon you like a robber, and want like an armed man."

[thismightgetalittledangerous]

July 12, 2017

And just like that, I'm 9 years old, sitting with my grandmother in the ancient kitchen chairs we always pulled out to the paved area along the border of my great grandfather's rose garden. We would sit there in the cool of the evening, shucking huge ears of sweet corn and snapping green beans into metal mixing bowls until our hands were stained with the colors of summer. Laughing and talking and working, we would sit together until the mercury light at the edge of the drive would flicker and flash and sputter to life, signaling that daylight was waning, calling for our retreat to the house before hundreds of cicadas and potato bugs took to the sky and filled the night with sound.

I think of Grammie (Grams, as I called her in later years) every time I see a redbird at my window, hear a lovely female alto voice singing church hymns, or catch myself letting one of her peculiar colloquialisms slip from my own lips all these years since I first heard her speak them in my childhood. But standing here at the sink tonight I can almost feel her close with me as I work alone at the task I so loved to share with her.

What I wouldn't give to feel her hands reach into this bowl for the ears I've finished, to hear her beautiful beautiful voice rise in worship with the congregation, to have her sit at the edge of my bed, telling wonderful fables and stories, humming soft and low as she traced my forehead with her fingers until my eyelids grew heavy and I surrendered to sleep.

I thank my God for all the decades I had with her and for the countless memories like these of hours spent together--hours I'd give anything to retrace and relive. Still, you always think there will be more time, another visit, one more chance to call and hear their voice on the line.

Never take for granted the time you get with your loved ones, my friends. Never pass up a moment to pull up a well-worn chair and share in menial tasks a while. And never underestimate the power of sweet corn to conjure a flood of memories as thick as potato bugs dancing in the irresistible glow of a mercury light on a cool summer evening.

[thismightgetalittledangerous]

Repost from May 23, 2017

Reflections on my original post from May 2015:

This year the dozens of garden beds I once cultivated are now fallow or have given way to lawn, and the tiny feet that roamed the crop rows in search of ripe cherry tomatoes or sugary-sweet blackberries are growing up and have moved away. Like those toddler feet, time marches on. Its cadence shifts—it speeds and slows but never retreats or retraces. Not really. Life changes so swiftly and so permanently, despite our best attempts at stemming its inevitable tide. 

It’s rather humbling if you think on it very often or very long. At least it is for me. It’s fair to say I live in perpetual awe at the seasonality of our days and how they mimic the urban farm life I once knew, constantly cycling but never quite the same. 

Those were good days… and I’m still so grateful to the Taliaferro family--my temporary housemates back then--for their patience with my penchant for gardening and my bachelor ways… and for blessing my life by making Tennessee their home. I’m thrilled to see them in a new house and I look forward to all that lies ahead for them there. New seasons are always full of promise and the chance to daydream, and it's my sincere hope and prayer this season yields everything they dare to dream. 

So here’s to more summers filled with ripe tomatoes, fat earthworms, and dirty bare feet. Here’s to porch sitting, to ice tea, to impromptu cookouts and the distinct aroma of spiced meat on the grill. Here’s to sidewalk chalk and mud pies and lemonade stands on tree-lined streets. Here’s to reveling in the time and living well these days we know won’t last. Here’s to many more seasons in the sun and eyes to see how precious they really are.  

Original Post (May 23, 2015):

Transferring strawberry runners from patch to pot… coaxing last year's kale, collard and okra volunteer seedlings up out of uncultivated soil… training Cherokee black beans and sugar snaps loosely across makeshift lattice of jute twine… staking unruly tomato plants... watching wasps and bees float effortlessly through the blackberry bramble… untangling a neglected web of Carolina jasmine and sweet potato vine… inspecting the first green tomatoes and squash blossoms of the season… running my hands through pot after pot of kitchen herbs and medicinals so their fragrances mix in the cool May air… turning plump earthworms and leftover straw under fallow soil in preparation for fall planting… dressing dozens of rose bushes with morning coffee grounds and a 3 year-old boy’s discarded and dried banana peels… rummaging through stacks of used terra cotta pots and half-empty bags of soil amendments left abandoned in the greenhouse last fall... washing the dark green heirloom tomato stalk stains from my sunburned hands… weeding stray lemon balm shoots from the garlic patch... building borders and walking paths through the maze of garden boxes and beds scattered throughout the grounds of this 70-year old house… and, for a few hours on this holiday afternoon, my mind drifts and I’m almost home.

[thismightgetalittledangerous]

Repost from May 27, 2017

Quiet low country morning, sipping coffee and spending a little time in the Word while looking out through the pine and cypress and Spanish moss, out over two of eight private lakes on an 1,100-acre sanctuary carved out of swamp and thicket two generations ago by my buddy Walker's grandfather. Snow-white egret, red-headed woodpecker, mallard, alligator, and even bald eagle populate this magnificent plot that has become one of my favorite places on earth. I put down the book, turn up Walt Wilkins, and gaze out across a landscape that reads like a love letter traced out elegantly on my heart by the sure and steady hand of my Beloved. He always speaks to me through His creation and rarely so exquisitely as He does now. Where I cobble together songs, He composes symphonies. Where I struggle to place my construction on my life and environment, He speaks worlds into existence. And yet, where I am in need He finds me, speaking into these moments like a lover Who has been knit to my very soul. I am always amazed and humbled at the hospitality of my wonderful friends here and at the way the time works on my spirit with real grace, restoration, contemplation, and kindness.

This day finds me grateful and blessed.

[thismightgetalittledangerous]

Repost from June 4, 2016

Sitting alone in a Mexican bar, nursing an ice cold Pacifico draft and killing some time while my kid sis gets her hair done by the best stylist in town (Wendy Conklin Hardaway). There's conjunto on the hi-fi, Carolina baseball on the boob tube, and the smell of fresh-grilled jalapeño in the air. As the rain comes down and the margarita machine whirs softly in the corner, my pulse slows, my breathing eases, and I'm grateful for a moment's respite. Here in this west-side cantina I'm reminded of life's simple pleasures--a mid-day frosty, watching Duke get spanked, a phone call from a brother, and the chance to simply check out from the world a while.

We spend so much effort and money in pursuit of the new, the novel, the next. We look for exotic escapes and unique opportunities. But I'm here to tell you that for about $4 and tip, you can have every bit of solace and all the vacation you need.

[thismightgetalittledangerous]

Three liberal shakes of aged balsamic, half a dozen gentle stirs with an old wooden spoon, a light pinch of sea salt, and I'll be transported to a time when dinner meant one bowl with two spoons, rich round sips of pinot noir from a single overfilled glass, obscure French jazz on the hi fi, hours spent dancing barefoot by firelight, and nightstands perfumed with peonies and hollyhocks. Strange how a simple bowl of orzo and a good bottle of red can conjure ghosts several years now gone. Strange how images flicker and flash along the dimly lit corridors of memory like heat lightning across a midsummer evening sky. It seems my lot to go on traveling time. So tonight I'll pour a little more generously and drink more deeply. I'll turn the hi fi up a bit louder and sit on my front porch a little later, a little longer. And I'll allow myself the rare luxury of one more walk down streets and paths I once called home. Bring out the old photographs. Bring the records, bring the wine. Bring the meal that sparked a revelry. And bring two spoons just one... more... time.

[thismightgetalittledangerous]

This pretty much sums up what Facebook is gonna be like today... #bebackinaweek #loveyoubuhbye #begoodtoeachother

[thismightgetalittledangerous]

Whoever said "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels" never had a hot-buttered piece or three of my homemade beer bread. So, I see your cute newyear-whole30-paleolife-glutenfree-cleaneating posts and hashtags, and I raise you one damn tasty loaf of homemade goodness. Good luck with your celery.

[thismightgetalittledangerous]

A few words on Mariah…

You ever wake in a slather from that dream where you’re roaming the halls of your high school in nothing but your undies? Well, from what I can tell, Mariah Carey just lived down a harsh variation of that nocturnal hell. But she was wide awake. In front of millions of people. All over the freeking world.

We all gave a nervous laugh when it happened. That’s understandable. But what I don’t understand—and don’t ever want to understand, honestly—is what followed.

I watched as friends and acquaintances—including fellow-performers—took to the interwebs and the socials… and BLASTED the poor girl. From general mocking and ragging to detailed technical analysis, a whole heck of a lot of people—folks I know—turned to assumption and ridicule regarding an unfortunate situation most knew squat about. It’s almost a week later and they are STILL trashing her on social media with memes, comics, etc.

Even if we’re only having a little fun, why do we think so much of our need for entertainment but think so little of the dignity of others?

My dearly departed mentor and friend, Dr. Charles Trevethan, taught me a great deal about how we treat others. He used to talk with his sociology classes about the blessing of “Practiced Non-Observance.” I won’t bore you with a college lecture but it’s basically the practice of intentionally pulling our punches—willing ourselves to forgo the chance to kick someone while they’re down.

Man, do I wish we would all jump on that wagon.

How marvelous would it be to exist in a world where we gave the same measure of grace we so desperately long to get? Where our frantic-nightmare-hallway-underwear run ends with a classmate throwing us a coat instead of snapping pics on their iPhone for the Instas? I don’t know about you but I'd like to see the troll culture die ugly... and soon. I'd like to see an end to the prissy little culture mavens who've told us this is the new normal--beating the mess out of each other when the chips are down. I don’t think this is what’s intended when we champion free speech or “having a voice.” My right to have my say shouldn’t ever divorce me from my obligation to weigh my words and their social consequences—to consider whether my untethered emotions will possibly do damage to others. Reason is only meant to temper passion but temper it still must. Call me crazy, but I believe that there’s nothing in your head or your heart or your circumstances that hurts so badly or stings so much that it warrants taking things out on someone who didn’t do a damn thing to you but have a rough moment while you happened to be looking.

Now, I recognize that most feel there are times when someone might deserve payback, karma, or whatever you care to call it. And you’ll respond that sometimes the harsh treatment is warranted. But is it? Even if that person were hell on toast in the personality department do they deserve lambast? Does their gaff warrant round after round of public immolation?

No. Not at all.

Then why does it happen?

And why the heck would a performer ever do or say those things to or about another performer… EVER??? When we know how hard it is? And especially when the “target” is as amazingly talented and accomplished as she’s proven to be FOR DECADES now?

And yet I’ve watched fellow performers—even fellow believers—do that to Mariah this week. I didn't join in this time but, to my shame, I've been party to that kind of treatment in the past.

That ends here and now.

My mom once cried during an impromptu “house concert” I was giving for some of my parents’ friends. I was in my second sophomore year in college (yes, folks… there were several sophomore AND junior years for this knucklehead), and I hadn’t spent much time on stage up to that point. That night I thought hers were tears of pride but they were something different, something more. She later told me she worried that I made myself so vulnerable so often for so many. She recognized the danger that comes when you wear your heart on your sleeve every time you pick up a guitar or take to the microphone in front of others. And unless you’re completely phoning it in when you play or sing or act or dance in front of an audience, you’ve experienced some degree of that vulnerability.

Kinda like walking the halls of school in your underwear.

We take to the stage ass-out, full-tilt… and vulnerable. On our best day, we weather the scrutiny of the masses, the media, and anyone who gets the bright idea they should take to Twitter and do a little bashing from the cheap seats. On tough days—when we lay an egg in the middle of a song or forget lyrics/lines or get the full-on Mariah treatment—those critics eat us alive. Their words are often as flippant as they are uniformed… but they still blister and bruise and break.

I keep watching the socials as good people who I know and love and respect as performers dish out the same harsh treatment as the couch quarterbacks and hacks… when they could have taken a couple minutes and employed that social media vehicle toward a beautiful blessing in a life that coulda really used it at the time.

Why the heck do we eat our own? And when the hell is it going to stop? I hear so many people these days talking about how fierce they are, how strong, how brave. But the world doesn’t need our fierceness. And if we truly were as strong and as brave as we claim, then I wouldn’t be writing this now. I wouldn’t be coming to the defense of someone who had a really bad day in front of the whole world. I wouldn’t have to because you’d already be out front, stepping between the momentarily unfortunate and their tough situation with your coat already off and your arm reached out in blessing. You see, real strength doesn’t crave its own demonstration; it isn’t proven through shedding the blood of the weak and the unfortunate.

Bravery is not defined in cheap shots.

True power stoops to conquer. Real strength protects and defends.

Let’s remember that, kiddos. And, as trite as it sounds, let’s try being the change we long to see in the world. I believe a better way is possible and I ain’t quitting until I see it so.

Join me?