one thousand, 10

My warm-weather average is probably at least four cups of coffee a day. And by cup I mean mega-mug. (The official size of a cup of coffee is around 4 oz. Who ever?!) I never, ever miss a day, and the colder the day the morer the java. I'm guestimating that I sipped down more than 1,500 "servings" of mmm hot caffeinated deliciousness last year. Probably more. I likely did more coffee last year than I did meaningful prayer. Sorry, God and Mormons and Adventists and old-time Nazarenes and whoever else thinks caffeine should be sold in liquor stores.

According to the calendar on the ol' iPhone, I got my hair cut eleven times in 2010 and my teeth cleaned twice. I was scheduled to see the doctor three times, but cancelled once because I wasn't supposed to eat, forgot, woke up and had a biscuit.

Last year I shared songs on stages and platforms in Kentucky, Indiana, Illinois, West Virginia, Tennessee, California, Georgia, Florida, Ohio, Missouri, Oklahoma, Colorado, Texas, Arkansas, Michigan, Virginia and North Carolina. (The acoustics in the little trailer terminal at the Salt Lake City Airport were pretty fun, so I hummed a little in Utah. I'm not counting that one as official though cause it was unadvertised.)

The state capitol building in Kentucky hit the big 1-0-0 back in the summer. The governor officially invited me to officially sing the official state song at the big official b'day party in the official rotunda where bad notes linger and you can harmonize with yourself if you do it quickly. That was a historic, official treat for me.

One of my fave days every year is the one I spend with the thousands of breast cancer survivors who come out to the Celebration of Hope. Kentucky First Lady Jane Beshear asked me to host the show again, and I think I said yes before she said would you... Fran Drescher and UK coach John Calipari talked too. I forget what they said.

Tony Greene left us. That was hard. It's still hard.

I sang a handful of jingles, put some BGVs on a few records, did voice-overs for two or three TV commercials, and had a couple of writing sessions with some incredibly humble but still intimidating song-crafter-artists in 2010.

I got to lead-sing on a classic gospel song with one of the classic performers who actually made it a classic gospel song. Then I got to harmony-sing with one of the the coolest, funnest, most tuned-in-to-God groups around. All of that in a matter of hours. Way cool!

I spent a couple of days recording Gaither Homecoming videos. As always, it was like a family reunion where you're content to wave across the room to some and can't wait to catch up with others and load up on hugs and stories knowing you won't again until the next reunion - or funeral. Bill always feeds us good. We laugh a lot and cry almost as much.

I saw The Rocky Horror Picture Show in a movie theater for the very first time - rice, newspapers, flashlights, confetti, toilet paper, toast, cards, hot dogs and all. They confiscated our water pistols at the door.

The Fourth of July fireworks look different from the middle of downtown Lexington where buildings used to be but an open pasture with a pretty fence is now. I learned that the big Halloween zombie walk down Main Street really is big.

I "accidentally" dropped my iPhone 3G repeatedly until it broke. The new iPhone 4 is really neat.

Zac gave me a new smarter-than-I-am camera for my !#th birthday for which I'd have to switch majors to figure out. I gave him a bicycle for his, but returned it and got him another one cause his feet couldn't touch the ground, but returned it too cause although it was shorter and he's an adult, his feet still couldn't touch the ground. It's all good. Kid's bikes don't cost as much.

I flew away to Ft. Lauderdale, New York, Miami, Denver. St. Louis, Chicago, SoCal and Pittsburgh for a few days. Mortgages, car payments, and a vanishing dog sitter forced me to eventually fly back.

After nearly 15 years of dedicated soccer grunt-n-grind, Christian did his senior year thing on the field for the last time back in the fall, making his dad sinfully proud. Even though their last game went down ugly, it was my son who scored his team's only post-season goal. My one man victory lap would've been louder if some bound up parent hadn't swiped my vuvuzela. I was sad when it was over. My little boy is really a man.

Casie is all girl - all very pretty girl. I always thought I'd spend a good part of my daddy years judging, deeming unfit and turning wannabe boyfriends one after another away from her before she even knew they were interested. I knew of no living male who met the well justified qualifications. Still don't. But it looks like she's doing an admirable job, policing things very well. Good girl.

My sweet friend Ty got married and grand-opened her own business called Twirl Boutique. If a guy ever measures up, Casie will wedding shop there.

Since our extra, extra, extra, extra long lunch was perpetually tying up one of their Saturday afternoon tables, the fine chefs at 6 Friends Cafe in Lexington decided they might as well make good use of our hijacking. So me and my friends Amy and Renee got to taste test some deserts and name the best one after Nay Nay and John's new handsome and always smiling baby boy. The "Candy Case" crepe is delicious of course, and forever belongs to him. You're welcome, Lexington.

Right before Christmas, cute-as-a-button baby Zak introduced himself to Mom and Dad as Bishop grandchild #10, via my youngest brother, Chris. His adorability reminds everyone of his uncle Kenny.

The Spoon Bread Festival made history back in the summer when they discovered their most gorgeous little gem ever. Abby, the so far one and only Bishop great-grand was crowned Tiny Miss and then strutted her hot little stuff on the runway at state where bribery is the only possible explanation for her not coming home with a tiera, title and world tour.

Two of the best friends I've ever had in the whole of the world moved away, and I cried for a while. But now Anthony and Greg are settled in Ft. Lauderdale where I've already started my quest to hang in their extra bedroom way past the awkward stage.

In July I played producer for a big Kentucky Lady Legends show on a big stage on the river in Louisville. The weather worked pretty while Patty Loveless, Loretta Lynn and Wynonna Judd turned the crowd into puppets. In the end it was like Thanksgiving. All that work for a two hour meal.

Just before the ladies, I pulled executive producer duties for a one-man play called, "The Kingfish" at Louisville's Actors Theatre. Don't know if I'm more in love with the play or the theatre.

I've recently been treated to a reconnection with an old friend from long ago. Tim makes me feel wealthy. I reluctantly thank Mark Zuckerberg who is really, really wealthy.

Ronnie has been a close friend. Lately he's become a very dear friend. We connect on things like puking at the thought of seafood and an unhealthy passion for meatloaf - but only good meatloaf. I tolerate his fried green tomatoes like a real friend should.

Something I didn't last year that I wish I did was spend more time locked away with my recorder, keyboard and writing stuff. I also wish all that coffee was water.

vote for the dental hygienist

Yesterday was sorta like one of my semiannual teeth cleanings. The pain, relief and sense of fulfilled duty left me with both a little bit of a gritty, bad taste and a little woozy. But regardless, it always feels right to step into that booth and do a vote.

Like usual, I voted for a candidate or two that I wasn't completely in love with. But, I'm not sure I've ever cast a ballot for a politician who sees everything as I do. Heck, sometimes I don't even agree with my own positions. And on some things, I'm not sure I have an opinion - at least not one that's educated. I'm also prone to changing my mind when I learn more about a subject. Evidently, in politics, once you say something out loud you're not allowed to say something different - more enlightened or not. Knowing all that, I’d have some serious reservations before I’d even vote for myself.

… and speaking of flip-flopping. Most of last night’s winners that I heard seemed to speak very kind words of praise about their just-defeated opponents who were lying, thieving, corrupt societal menaces until very recently, when the polls closed. I wondered if I should believe their previous words or their current ones. I wondered if their next political adversary would point out their flip-flop the next time around.

For me, this time around, for the first time that I can remember, I ended Election Day feeling a little disappointed in myself. It’s not because not all of my favorite candidates won. It’s more because I felt forced to decide whether to let the end or the means make my decision. Because so many of the races and candidates where I live were so ugly and frankly, not always believable, I had to step into the voting booth yesterday and make a principled decision based on more than policy ideas. I had to judge some character. I hate judging. I don’t feel qualified to judge. I didn't make my decisions based entirely on the content of the info and ads each side presented, but on whether it could be believed, or whether it was necessary at all.

There was certainly no tingly feeling about it for me. I think I swallowed hard a time or two, wiped my brow, and even closed my eyes once so I wouldn't witness exactly what I was about to do. I walked out thinking I should wash my hands, and not at all eager to brag about some of the buttons I'd just pushed. (BTW, a bottle of hand sanitizer at each polling place would be a good idea.) It was tough, and I don’t regret my votes. And although I’m not necessarily proud of myself, I did vote.

11/3/10 please

My debate coach once said that when you resort to derogatory names for your opponent your argument has become juvenile, you’ve diminished your own credibility, you’ve lost the audiences respect, and you’ve exhausted all of your intelligent information.

I’m ready now. I want to vote. If my vote means that all of the gosh-darn political ads will stop interfering with my entertainment and my usually happy attitude, I’ll run down and cast one now.

Lately I feel like I’m lugging a lot of heaviness around. I feel frustrated and sorta defeated. The air seems dirty and dense. It’s ruining my otherwise perfect Fall. Some say it’s Obama’s fault. Some blame the tea party folks. I think it’s all of these depressing political carpet-bomb attacks from ALL the sides. Where in the world do you buy a gajillion dollars worth of cat claws? And unless you have a generous supply of Wellbutrin or just lock yourself in a wireless-less closet, there’s no way to escape the negativity and the cloud.

I’m certainly not a cynic, but the constant rotation of pithy words and grainy, slo-mo images we’ve been subject to for longer than seems necessary have made it hard not to be. So, to help myself sleep and to keep me smiling, I’ve changed some habits and invoked some bible. Specifically Philippians 4:8.

I hardly watch live TV anymore. The thirty-second doses of political tit-for-tat eye poking, and shin kicking among the grownups, and the extra effort it takes to decipher which one, if either, is telling me the truth, has motivated me to either record the stuff I want to see or, thanks to DVR, start watching about ten or fifteen minutes into the show so I can FF through all the exaggerations. But if do you see the ads, and you believe even part of what you’re told, regardless of who wins, it’ll be a dishonest, corrupt criminal clown who runs the victory lap – and the government. (To those who wonder, this explains voter apathy.)

I enjoy reasonable debate about policies, positions and politics. And it seems there’s certainly a market for biased political discussion, going both ways, on all the media. I think that’s good. But it often frustrates me when I hear a radio or TV host, even one that I know shares my own views, lose the argument AND respect for the point because they couldn’t avoid useless personal insults. What makes the guy behind the mic think he can convince an adult to change their position or see things his way when he argues like a kid? That’s why I don’t listen to talk radio anymore. No dish on the folks who do. I don't get into extreme fighting either. (Same kind of sport. Same kind of result.)

I personally know a lot of the folks who are running for office this time around. I know them well enough to know that they really are good people. I know them well enough to know that most of the things said about them in the commercials, on the news, in the interviews, and in the debates really aren’t true. I know them well enough to know that if they are elected or re-elected they will be good officials. I know them well enough to know that they don’t really breathe fire, hate puppies and steal crutches. I know them well enough to know that they don’t really believe their opponents do either. Maybe that’s the main reason I hate all this ugly political trickery. I know these people. They’re better than they’re portrayed and they’re better than they’re acting.

I’m anxious to hurry up and vote and get back to my regularly scheduled, mostly happy programming.

a kinda modern political tv ad

video: fast-fade in (waste shot) current GW in most expensive suit - pull back to full shot then fade out
audio: chirping birds to harpsichord playing Bach sonata
vo (sarcastic tone):
George Washington. He'd like you to think he's one of us. But we know better.

video: disolve to women wearing high fashion drinking tea behind large castle and well dressed children playing
audio: cut to to classical violin playing Mozart Concerto No. 5
vo (sarcastic tone) NOTE: spit "fancy" and stress 'not"
A child of privelege, George Washington was born on a fancy plantation with a fancy silver spoon. This wealthy aristocrat grew up in private schools and fancy parlors. He's not one of us.

video: cut to stills of GW and wife in fancey clothes - fast flash cut-ins of tattered slaves - disolve to GW posing in British uniform (Photoshop edits)
audio: fade from Mozart violins to "Brainbug Nightmare" by Sinister Strings (mid-point) then to military band playing "Rule, Britania"
vo (sarcastic) NOTE: stress "secret"
Then Fancy George married even more money and became a member of a secret society. Slave-driving George Washington once bowed to the British king, worked for foreign companies and even hoped to join the enemy's Navy.

video: cut to regimented troops, dissolve to gradual pullback (start face-close) of young, dying soldiers on battlefield - fade to black then to gradual pullback (start face-close) of solemn woman holding dirty, crying child and city burning behind - fade to b/w closeup of defeated GW face.
audio: fade to weeping strings
vo (stern but solemn tone) NOTE: drop voice to despair at end
While in charge of his own country's troops, gun-happy George sent more than 25,000 brave American men and boys into deadly ambush and disease - leaving countless desperate widows and orphans to fend for themselves. Thanks to George Washington, our greatest cities fell into enemy hands.

video: pop into closeup of angry GW face - pull back to arrogant GW counting money, sinister laugh and big belly
audio: back to harpsichord playing Bach sonata
vo (concern-to-angry tone) NOTE: stress "took over"
Still not satisfied, King George took over the Constitutional Convention and found a way to write himself a big, fat paycheck - courtesy of you. No other president has raised more taxes or thrown more of your hard earned money across the river.

video: cut to b/w closeup of GW face (in wince) - slow pullback with dissolve rotation of previous images (Large castle, GW in British uniform, slave, dying soldiers, crying child, ragged woman, burning city...)
audio: thunder w/startling strings
vo (very snide) NOTE" stress "we"
George Washington. Traitor, elitist and incompetent leader. We can do better.

video: pop to black with small text
audio: none
vo (professional):
Paid for by the committee to rid our country of its only career politician.

god vs fred - a reprise

Matthew Shepard should’ve been 33 years old by now. I wrote and posted the following words on my blog one year ago:

I’m thinking that Fred Phelps and his hate-in-the-name-of-Jesus congregation have never felt the hurt in any of the broken hearts they protest. I’ll bet they’ve never considered comforting a devastated parent or the spouse or child of a military soldier just tragically lost. Chances are they’ve not once followed the real Jesus example of compassion and weeping with the broken and sad. I’m sure that they never, ever looked into the eyes of Judy Shepard to express sorrow that her 21 year old son had been tortured and killed so violently and so senselessly.

If I give much thought to the wackos at Westboro I get angry. In the stupid/arrogant/psycho & disturbed hall of insanity, the Phelps plaque hangs just around the corner from the Hitler and the Hussein. I’d love to express more heartfelt disgust, but it’s very judgmental of me and my language would certainly lean offensive. Too, I have no more appreciation for my own judgementalism than theirs or anyone else’s, and I certainly don’t wish to lower myself to the Phelps family way.

Matthew Shepard died eleven years ago. Eleven years and six days ago he was alive, but barely, having been beaten into a coma and left for dead in a remote Wyoming field. The two guys who were responsible for luring him into their car, robbing him, pistol-whipping him, torturing him, tying him to a fence and leaving him for dead are locked up now with two consecutive life sentences each. They admitted that they, like Fred Phelps’ god, hate fags. So they killed him.

Matthew was gay. But had he been fat or black or Hispanic or female or poor or anything else that would distinguish him from his attackers, could there ever be justification for the savage, heartless brutality he endured? One of his killers said that as they bashed Matthew’s head with the butt of their gun over and over again, he was screaming and begging them to stop, pleading for his life. They took his shoes, tied him painfully tight with a sharp, thin rope to a rough prairie fence post, then drove away into a chilly night leaving him in the cold to die. It was said that when he was found eighteen hours later Matthew’s face was covered in blood, except for the tracks that were made by his tears.

A lot has been said since Matthew’s murder about the need for extra punishment for those whose crime is motivated by their personal prejudices. I’m sorta mixed on the notion. But then again, I’ve not been a victim – not like Matthew. Although, the more I think about the fear that Matthew must’ve felt, his futile pleas for mercy, the hopelessness of being bound in the cold, in the wilderness, his terribly long and painful night of suffering and his last few agonizing days struggling to live – all because, only because he was gay – the more justified it seems.

Today, the anniversary of Matthew Shepard’s death, would be a good day to consider the need for understanding and compassion among us. If you look at anyone and see less or more because of their skin or their stature or their gender or their ability or their affections or their position or their faith or their failures or their wardrobe or their politics or their car or their talents or their wealth or their success or their past or anything else, it might be good to ask God what He sees.
It’s certainly tough to see and like people like Fred Phelps. I’m glad God can.

missing tony

I miss Tony. On the days that life or business consumed and it never occurred to me to laugh, he'd call. I'd say Hi. He'd spit out a one-liner. I'd bust a gut laughing. He'd laugh and snort too while he hung up the phone. The whole thing would last maybe thirty seconds. But I'd laugh the rest of the day. It's been too many days now since the last one of those moments. I miss Tony.

Need a gospel flashlight? It doesn't matter. Need it or not, Tony was good at selling you one. He could stand on the stage and sell anything, and most of the time you didn't realize he was pitching. You wanted whatever he offered even if you already had it. And you never felt snookered when you bought his goods. Tony stood by his words because Tony's endorsement was a promise. And even in the Gospel music world that's not always the case. Makes me miss him.

What a voice... When I first heard Tony sing, lots of years ago, it hadn't changed yet. Back then, when he harmonized with his family, his notes were above both his brother AND his sister. But man, when puberty finished with him, what an incredible set of lead-singing pipes he ended up with. Since then, when the song needed a man's power voice, Tony's was it. Otherwise, he was the subtle, blending anchor part that was crucial to some of the prettiest phrasing and harmony anywhere. He knew his parts. I'm glad we have lots of recordings to remember him by. But I still miss his singing.

Hundreds of thousands of people, probably more, have forgotten their worries because Tony gave them a moment and a place in which to escape. He knew that responsibility as he stepped onto the stage every night. He and I would talk about our ministry role of being a balm that soothes while God does the bigger thing of repairing and healing the reasons for the hurt. He'd remind me of that from time to time, especially when I didn't feel like singing. He'd tell me to stop being so selfish and to stop depriving hurting people of their opportunity to feel-good, even if only for a while. "Who knows when they'll get another chance to laugh or feel God?" he'd say. Sometimes I don't want to sing. I need Tony.

Sometimes Tony's tales were heard and accepted by the standards of the National Inquirer's official understanding of believability. If a story is so outlandish that no one in their reasonable mind would believe it, they probably shouldn't. Sometimes I didn't know which parts of his stories were fact or not. It didn't matter though. When Tony told it, it was a Tony tale. We took it for what it was, laughed at it and probably re-told it as our own. His version was always funnier. I'd like to hear the one about the fox tattoo again.

Tony was in love with Taranda. The music they made together was Heaven-meant, and it was impossible to not recognize the chemistry and the believability and the compatibility they had with each other. It was the music that introduced them to each other, but the moments without an audience was what made them lovers and partners. And they were devoted partners. A good part of Tony's life was to support and encourage the incredible and anointed gift that is his wife's. Of course Tony loved Isabella and Jocelyn. He didn't completely understand the thinking of itty-bitty girls. But to love them he didn't have to. Tony loved all of his family, and sometimes they all had a lot to love each other through. He's been my model in that way and I've learned a lot from his example of waiting. Gee, I miss his wisdom.

Tony was devoted to the people who supported him. Only a few days before he went to the hospital for the last time he was in the middle of a huge exhibit hall with a line of fans wrapped around corners and aisles just to see him. Although no one was allowed to touch him for fear of transmitting an infection, he looked tired. And like so many others, I was concerned for him. I told him then that he shouldn't be there. The people would understand There were too many germs, and it was dangerous, and as much as everyone wanted to see him, he would be safer in a more sterile place. He told me that these people meant a lot to him. He wanted to see them while he could because he didn't know if he'd ever have the chance to see them again. Tony loved those people. He appreciate their kindness. He was determined to repay it.

As much as Tony was a cut-up and a charmer, a master communicator, a successful businessman, an accomplished singer, a remarkable entertainer, an effective minister, a devoted lover, a committed father, an incredibly close friend and so much more, Tony was above everything a Christian. His faith identified him. His stories and songs, his phone calls and his life were all wrapped by his commitment and compulsion to share why he laughed, why he loved, why he sang and why he cared. He lived his life doing his best to return the favors that God had been so generous in sharing. I have to tell you, it's so refreshing to remember. But right now I am so missing Tony.

missed me words

I've been gone. I've left a silent couch sitting empty for several months now.

Time went by fast, really fast. I've been absent from posting words here for a long time now, much longer than I intended. I first planned to just keep silent for a few weeks. I needed to get past some crucial deadlines. But once out of the habit of sharing thoughts and eventually, after several months of feeling guilty for telling people who'd asked why I was ignoring my chat couch that I'd start posting again soon, then not doing it, I became kind of ashamed.

Although I've not written here lately, I have been writing. I have messenger bags full of pads full of pages full of words that no one has seen or read. Looking back through them lately, I've noticed that sometimes my assembled words make no sense at all. What in the world does, "riding rainbow roller coasters" mean, and where in the world did a thought like that come from? The point: I've been writing, just silently.

So, my intent over the next several days or weeks or however long I feel impressed, is to occasionally look back through some of my rambling, scratched out thoughts and share them here. When I do, I may expound some, or I may leave things virgin and original, as I first imagined it. I may share the background (if I remember it or if I noted it at the moment) or, like the weird thought above, I may have no clue what opened the brain door to something so random.

Besides my piles of paper, I'm always sending me emails and texts, leaving myself voice mail messages, using the handy little voice memo ap on my iPhone and pecking out lines in my smarter-than-I-am-phone notes. Evidently something inspired me at the grocery store a while back. I was cleaning the car last week and found, "fake thunder - fake storm - fake rain," on the back of an old shopping list. I reckon the magic moment happened in produce.

So, thanks for your patience. Thanks for waiting. Thanks for not giving up and believing that I'd be back with something to say. Thanks for stopping me in the mall or at a concert or while I'm trying to enjoy dinner with friends or while I'm at the urinal to tell me that you've missed sitting on my couch. I'm not even partially sure what these off-the-page postings will look like, but flipping through my scribbles, let's call it something intellectual like abstract art.

home, home on the web

Gas is expensive these days. Just so I won't have to make the commute, from this day and this moment henceforth, the words of Kenny Bishop shall be found a little closer to his web home. Make a note and meet me at www.kennybishop.com/blog. We've worked really hard to make it look, feel, taste and smell as much like you're used to as possible.

The platform there is WordPress instead of Blogger. So, if you've subscribed to the feed here and wish to keep tuning in after the move, it'll be necessary to resubscribe there. I really, really, really, really, really, really hope you will.

peace...
kb

1st decade of the 21st century of the 3rd millennium

Ten years ago I was sitting on the bus behind the big arena in Winston Salem, North Carolina waiting for all the world's computers to crash. When it happened, society as we knew it was scheduled to end. Not that I'd done anything to prepare for the sudden dark ages. Honestly, if I'd really thought something that big was going to happen I'd have been back home in Kentucky where Mark Twain said he wanted to be when the world came to an end because it's always twenty years behind.

About 9,000 people were inside the arena taking in the first couple of acts. It would be our turn in an hour or two, closer to the local countdown to destruction. The contract for this particular show required all of the artists to be on the stage, singing full voice at midnight. I wondered what would happen if all-of-the-sudden the lights went out. The stage was in the round, so we were surrounded by the audience. Would there be enough security there with flash lights to get us all off the stage, through the crowd, to a safe place? What if all the batteries in those flashlights got wind of the plan and stopped working too? With no sound system to give amp to a calm voice of direction, would there be pandemonium and chaos? Was there indeed a plan? Was THAT built into our contract?

So I sat on the bus wondering what might happen and scanning the channels to see how the folks who'd already flipped their calendars were coping. As it turned out, if the lights even flickered nobody noticed.

I don't know what I was expecting. The months and weeks leading up to - or counting down to the new year/decade/century were filled with warnings from some and dismissals from others. Some of the most dire predictions I heard actually came from a few TV preachers who had taken advantage of the occasion by offering anointed survival kits. For a gift to the Lord's work of $75 you and your spouse can live to tell about it. For $50 more your kids can join you. I knew people who took all of the uncertainty very seriously. They stocked up on canned goods, duct tape and supplies. I knew a couple of folks who built shelters and cellars. They weren't taking any chances. I'm not sure what use they have for them now.

I consider myself and all the other pre-two thousanders survivors. Now, celebrating the first ten years of the twenty-first century of the third millennium, I feel like we've come a long, long way. It's hard to imagine what'll pop up in the days and decades ahead. To be honest with you, when I was a kid I thought we'd be wearing tin-foil jumpers and strapping into hover-cars by now. So did Walt Disney.

junked up christmas

Pop in at my place unannounced and it's likely you'll find me looking pretty comfy. Unless I'm expecting company, I usually don't dress for company. Otherwise it's shorts and a t-shirt or sometimes my bath robe and PJs. If I don't figure anyone but me is around to notice, I may let a pair of shoes or a half-read book lay around for a day or two. I may even allow the plates and coffee cups to sit in the sink 'til there are enough to bother with. Still though, I prefer to know if you're coming.

It's Christmas now. So with lots of family and loads of friends popping in and out, the plan is to try and keep me, my place and my things as presentable as possible. Be prepared for the president, I say. I can be and have been, but it's hard to catch me unprepared for guests this time of year. Show up on my doorstep right now and I can legitimately offer you a bite of something, a cup of something or a glass of something and a nice, clean place to enjoy it. Knowing this time was coming, I was able to prepare.

Back when Herod was fuming about this new kid king he'd been hearing about; back when the shepherds were wondering where those voices were coming from, their heads or the sky, and if it had anything to do with the field grass they were smoking, er, sleeping on; back when the inn-keeper was wondering what the commotion in the barn was all about and second guessing if it was smart to send a pregnant woman out there; back when star gazers showed up on the Joseph family door with expensive gifts for a baby who'd already been walking on that sort of thing; back when prophet after priest after pulpiteer predicted he was coming and just this way, it was still like no one expected it when baby Jesus showed up in Bethlehem.

It appears that the world was startled and not a little rattled that God dropped in all-of-the-sudden via a Mary and a manger. They obviously weren't expecting him when and where and how he came. The house was a mess. The place wasn't ready. Everybody was living like there'd be no company, lounging around in their comfort wear. Had they known a king was coming they would've at least tried to tidy the place up a bit; kick the crumbs under the rug; toss the piled up clothes in the spare room; close the door; break out the Febreze; hide the mail; throw the dishes in the washer; put on a suit, brush the teeth, comb the hair... And, this was THE King - cause for a good, thorough scrubbing.

He was a baby and a human, yes. As God though, I'm thinking that Jesus knew well what he was coming into. We could've painted the place up, put on a new outfit and showed up in a Lamborghini, but I'm not convinced he'd be convinced of our success or our cleanliness. He'd know that we don't really live in museums, that we only wear suits when the rules and/or expectations make us. He also knows that sometimes pot holes are unavoidable regardless of the ride. God knows we don't smile all the time.

Sometimes I cheat. When I get short notice that company's coming, instead of cleaning stuff up I hide it. Please, PLEASE don't come to my house expecting a grand tour. Some rooms are off limits. There's junk in there. And God knows it. That's why He came. That's why we have Christmas.

thank you day

Afrikaans - Dankie
Albanian - Faleminderit
Arabic - Sukran
Armenian - shur-nur-ah-gah-lem
Australian - Thoinks, Moite!
Basque Country - Eskerrik asko
Bengali - Dhannyabad
Bulgarian - Blagodaria
Bosnia - Hvala
Burma - Jae Zu Din Pa De
Cameroon - Na som
Canada - Thank You
Cantonese - Do jey
Catalonia - gràcies
Cherokee Nation - Wado
Cherokee (Eastern) - Skee
Chinese (Mandarin) - Xie_Xie
Chinese (Cantonese) Do jeh
Cook Islander - Kia Manuia
Croatia - Hvala
Czech – Dekuji
Danish - tak
Dutch - bedankt
English - Thank you
Esperanto - Dankon
Ewe Togo - Apké na wo
Fijian - Vinaka
Finnish - kiitos
Fon Benin - Kpè nu wé
French - merci
F.Y.R.O.M. - Hvala
Gambia - Abarka
Georgia - madlobt
German - Danke
Greek - Efharisto
Guarani - Aguije
Guinea - Abarka
Gujarathi - Aabar
Hawaiian - Mahalo
Hebrew - Toda
Hindi - Dhanyavaad
Hungarian - Köszönöm
Icelandic - Þakka þér fyrir
Indonesian - Terima kasih
Iran - Moteshakeram
Irish - Go raibh mile maith agat
Italian - Grazie
Japanese - Arigato
Javanese - Matur nuwun
Kannada - Dhan-ya-vaadaa
Korean - Kamsa hamaida
Latvian - Paldies
Lithuanian - Achu
Luganda - Waybale
Malayalam - Nandi
Malaysian - Terima Kasih
Mali - Abarka
Mandinka - Abarka
Maori - Kia Manuia
Nepali - Dhan-ya-vaad
New Zealand - Cheers
Nigeria - Na gode
Norwegian - Takk
Oman - Shakkran
Palauan - soolong
Paraguay - Aguije
Persian/Farsi - Mam'noon
Philippines Tagalog - Salamat
Polish - Dziekuje
Portuguese - Obrigado
Punjabi - Bhala Hove
Qatar - Shakkran
Romanian - Multumesc
Russian - Spasiba
Samoan - Talofa
Saulteaux Indians - Miigwech
Scottish - Cheers
Scot's Gaelic - Tapadh Leibh
Senegal - Abarka
Serbo -Hvala
Slovakia – Dakujem
South Africa - Dankie
Spanish - Gracias
Sundanese - Nuhun
Sunda - Hatur Nuhun
Swahili - Ahsante
Swedish - Tack
Tahitian - Maururu
Tamil - Nandri
Telungu - Manjuthe
Thai - Khob Khun
Tibetan - Thuk Ji Chhe
Turkish - Saðol
U.S. - Thank You
Ukranian - Dyakuyu
Urudu - Shukria
Urdu - Shukria
Uzbekistan - Rahmat
Vietnamese - Kam ouen
Wales/Cymru - Diolch
Xhosa - Nkosi
Yemen - Shakkran
Yiddish - A dank
Yoruba - Modupe
Yugoslavia - Hvala
Zulu - Ngiyabonga

21 years a daddy

When I woke up this morning, twenty-one years ago I wasn't a daddy. By the end of the day though, I was not only a proud parent, but the child of my loin also happened to be the prettiest and most instantly intelligent human on the globe. Amazing how that happened I thought. Of all people, I was immediately able to start bragging that God had allowed me to father the world's most wonderful little girl.

Things haven't changed much since, except that she's even prettier and smarter now. I smile when I think of her. I tear when I miss her. She's always on my mind and constantly in the prayers I whisper. It's been going on that way for 21 years now. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Every day that I see her I get confirmation that my little girl, my Casie is one of my most valuable treasures ever. Happy birthday my baby girl! I love you.

false face

As a kid I don't remember so much Mom taking us to the store to buy costumes. Best I can remember, most Halloweens we just found stuff already in the closets and made something up at home. Scarecrows were always pretty easy. Take a pair of bib overalls, a flannel shirt and some straw and there ya go. Paint a couple of big red dots on the cheeks and a little black on the nose, a hat if we had one... More than once I was a product of last-minute planning and ended up in one of Mom's outfits. I was a pretty little thing, 'cept back then Mom didn't wear makeup which made for a homely looking girl. One year we stuffed a pillow under my "blouse" and I was a pro-life, pre-teen example of what you should do if you get knocked up unexpectedly.

One year me, my brothers and a friend or two decided we wanted to be Kiss. This despite the fact that the visiting preacher at church said they were devil worshippers. I insisted on being Gene Simmons. I thought he was the coolest of the singing satanists, and as much as I didn't want to go to Hell, I did want to be coolest. Somehow we got some white and black face paint, some glitter and made due with the hair we had - spiking it and teasing it and mussing it up as best we could with mousse and gel and hairspray. My brother, Loren, ended up cutting his own hair to better get into character. After Mom delivered her cow she administered his punishment - which couldn't have been much worse than the ribbing he got at school the next day.

Ever once in a while, come Halloween we'd splurge and buy a mask. My mamaw called them false-faces. She seemed sorta fascinated with the concept. The first time we'd see her after trick-or-treat, she'd always ask us what kind of false-face we wore. "Evil Knievel," I said once. As much as I liked being more like the richer kids who could always afford to buy masks and costumes, I liked better the time Mom and I spent together sorting through drawers and closets trying to put together a crazy outfit that I'd wear just that once. They were usually over-the-top fashion disasters, but clowns and drag queens are funner than nuns and teachers. Besides, after a while of walking the neighborhood with a rubber band cutting through my face, no peripheral vision and smelling my own Tootsie Roll breath, I learned it was a whole lot more fun and freeing skipping door to door in a sheet, er, toga and Flip Flops. Besides, false-faces are dishonest.

gnats

Gnats have been aplenty around central Kentucky this summer. At first I thought word was swarming around the bug world that my place was the hot new local gnat club, until I heard other folks talking about their own little problem guests. Evidently it's been a good year for gnats - if there is such a thing.

I've always been a generous rodent emancipator. When I was a kid my mom used to tell folks about me herding house-trapped flies and crickets to the door so they could live free in the wide open, instead of swatting or stomping 'em. I don't know what the purpose of such creatures is, but figuring there's probably not a bug heaven, (I don't know that for sure.) why not let them live as long as they can before ending their eternal existence?

When it comes to gnats though, I seem to not care so much. Gnats are annoying. They flit about almost like an apparition. Sometimes you're not even sure you see one, but you still swat at the air, 'cause they're annoying. For some reason I don't have a big heart for gnats. Actually, knowing that an adult gnat usually only lives for about a week anyway, I figure it was just days, maybe hours away from a natural death when it found the sticky paper in the kitchen. If all the other gnats care, they'll come to the paper to pay their last respects - and stick around.

god vs fred

I'm thinking that Fred Phelps and his hate-in-the-name-of-Jesus congregation have never felt the hurt in any of the broken hearts they protest. I'll bet they've never considered comforting a devastated parent or the spouse or child of a military soldier just tragically lost. Chances are they've not once followed the real Jesus example of compassion and weeping with the broken and sad. I'm sure that they never, ever looked into the eyes of Judy Shepard to express sorrow that her 21 year old son had been tortured and killed so violently and so senselessly.

If I give much thought to the wackos at Westboro I get angry. In the stupid/arrogant/psycho & disturbed hall of insanity, the Phelps plaque hangs just around the corner from the Hitler and the Hussein. I'd love to express more heartfelt disgust, but it's very judgmental of me and my language would certainly lean offensive. Too, I have no more appreciation for my own judgementalism than theirs or anyone else's, and I certainly don't wish to lower myself to the Phelps family way.

Matthew Shepard died eleven years ago. Eleven years and six days ago he was alive, but barely, having been beaten into a coma and left for dead in a remote Wyoming field. The two guys who were responsible for luring him into their car, robbing him, pistol-whipping him, torturing him, tying him to a fence and leaving him for dead are locked up now with two consecutive life sentences each. They admitted that they, like Fred Phelps' god, hate fags. So they killed him.

Matthew was gay. But had he been fat or black or Hispanic or female or poor or anything else that would distinguish him from his attackers, could there ever be justification for the savage, heartless brutality he endured? One of his killers said that as they bashed Matthew's head with the butt of their gun over and over again, he was screaming and begging them to stop, pleading for his life. They took his shoes, tied him painfully tight with a sharp, thin rope to a rough prairie fence post, then drove away into a chilly night leaving him in the cold to die. It was said that when he was found eighteen hours later Matthew's face was covered in blood, except for the tracks that were made by his tears.

A lot has been said since Matthew's murder about the need for extra punishment for those whose crime is motivated by their personal prejudices. I'm sorta mixed on the notion. But then again, I've not been a victim - not like Matthew. Although, the more I think about the fear that Matthew must've felt, his futile pleas for mercy, the hopelessness of being bound in the cold, in the wilderness, his terribly long and painful night of suffering and his last few agonizing days struggling to live - all because, only because he was gay - the more justified it seems.

Today, the anniversary of Matthew Shepard's death, would be a good day to consider the need for understanding and compassion among us. If you look at anyone and see less or more because of their skin or their stature or their gender or their ability or their affections or their position or their faith or their failures or their wardrobe or their politics or their car or their talents or their wealth or their success or their past or anything else, it might be good to ask God what He sees.

It's certainly tough to see and like people like Fred Phelps. I'm glad God can.

me and my spider man

I'm not always a patient driver. When I'm in a hurry, which is most of the time, I think everyone else should be too - or at least let me have the road. From time to time I'm not in a rush. Then I get all freaked out when somebody who is starts pushing me up the road. I'm a hypocrite that way. I get antsy at traffic lights. When I'm sitting still and others aren't I start coveting. Seriously, sometimes I wonder if I'm not right on the edge of sinning with it. I want that other guy's green light. Then the worst situation, when I'm the only car at the intersection and my light is perpetually red. Grrrr...

So, yesterday morning I'm sitting at the traffic light just kinda zoned out, kinda noticing the stuff around me, but not really. I look up to count down with the cross walk sign and notice a spider. It's itsy, tiny body is supported by very thin but long, long legs. It looks really weird, even for a spider. I'm figuring it ended up on my car from one of the trees or bushes where I parked. Regardless, unless it finds a safe place in a car cranny and soon, it's seen its last days at or near the Bishop house.

When my signal said go I wondered what the little guy would do. (Sorry so sexist.) Actually, I figured more than I wondered. I figured he'd blow away. He didn't. I don't know what he latched onto in that glass, but as soon as the wind hit that little arachnid he dug in and held on. His eight legs turned into one. I figured at some point, when the wind got too much he'd have to give up and join the breeze. Not so. Three, maybe four traffic lights later he was still there. I was starting to cheer him on. I wondered if there was a spider Olympics somewhere where I could sign him up. This little bug was good.

I had this whole thinking like a spider thing going on in my head. I don't know, but I might have even started voicing it out loud - putting words in his little mouth, thoughts in its little brain. "What the...!" "Where is this thing taking me?!" "Where is my tree?" "What have I done?!" "Dude! Slow down!" "We're stopping, thank God!" "Here we goooblblblblbl" Not knowing what language spiders usually speak, mine was talking good old American English, but with a slight exotic yet mid-western accent. Think Nebraskan moved to Puerto Rico and trying really hard to fit in. Besides, according to my religious upbringing, the whole world is western, Jesus was white, and the Middle Eastern ancients spoke like yet to be born 17th century English kings. (Another blog, maybe.) So I felt I could take a little licence.

Even though we'd just gotten acquainted, me and my spider started bonding. I couldn't control the signals (oh, but if I could...) and the horns, stares and fingers forced me to go with the flow of traffic. But I was becoming a fan. The little bugger needed a break from time to time, so I started hoping for red lights. Then it occurred to me about all of the other spiders on all of the other cars. I know how strong my spider is. He's proven that he can hang on at least up to 35 mph. I don't know about the other guy's spider.

It occurred to me that when my light is red and my spider is resting, the spiders on the cars with the green lights aren't. Just like my little guy, they're holding on with everything in them. Not every spider gets to relax, not all at once. Not all the cars are sitting still, and there's no relaxing when the car is moving.

How narrow and self-indulgent of me to think that my spider was the only spider. How arrogant to think that me and my spider deserved something that other people and their spiders didn't. How weird of me to talk like a spider.

caleb's dream - my review

Back when I started writing and assembling music for my last record one of the writers I spent some time working with was Caleb Collins. Honestly, until I was told by my record company that they wanted him and me to write together, I'd never heard of him. I'm sure that he said the same thing.

If you're gonna do something as personal as writing music together, it's good to know a bit about your co's life and stuff. So, Caleb and I met and learned about each other, our backgrounds and musical likes and our own approaches to creating songs. I found out that he has deep Pentecostal roots. So do I. So we set out to take advantage of it. We ended up with a song called, "It's Never Too Late" and I used it to tie my record together at the end. He and I have collaborated since and have become great friends.

Caleb is more than a great writer. Last Christmas he released a holiday record that just blew me away. Now I'm fascinated with his newest album, Dream. I've not had it long because no one has until just a few days ago. But I've been wearing it out since downloading it to my iPod. (Well, actually my iPhone. But that seems pretentious to some people.)

Musically, I'm a lover of Josh Groban and Idina Menzel. The production on their records is big, orchestrated, current and sophisticated - the kind of stuff you'd hear in a poppish movie score. The music on Dream is just as large, maybe even trendier – but still very tasteful. Voice-wise, when a friend got in my car the other day he thought he was hearing Michael Buble. I would've said Harry Connick, Jr.

Yesterday I told Caleb that I'd love to see the liner notes that go with this project. I know that he either wrote or co-wrote all of the songs. I suspect he played most, if not all of the piano, keys and organ. I know he arranged and orchestrated some of the most remarkable strings and musical licks I've enjoyed in a long time. My sixteen year old son, who is just as fascinated by the texture and emotion of music as I am, was also just as captured by this recording as his dad.

Musically, the record is a wow! The point of the record though is obviously the message. It's a "gospel" collection of songs for Christians mostly it seems. But it's not a typical one. And it's not an obvious one unless you're paying attention. I will say though, I had no problems at all being lured in and getting the point, right from bar one.

It didn't hurt that the first words I heard were, "Hush and let me hold you now, while the rain is falling hard." It was pouring outside and my windshield wipers were barely keeping up. The message though was not only relevant and calming for that moment in the car, but for my place in life too. Like a lot of the songs, the words in track number one are through God's lips. The reassurance meant a lot to me at the time, and still does.

I thought it was neat that the very next song was an acknowledgement of the one before it. No less sophisticated musically, "Healer of My Heart" could play well on southern gospel radio I think. I can hear church praise and worship teams singing it too since it comes from the singer to God. There are a couple of others too that could probably accomplish some SGM radio success if politics doesn’t get involved, especially "Peace That Covers All the Pain."

The rest of the record mostly follows the pattern of God to Caleb (us), then Caleb's (our) response.

With all due respect, (please believe me) I don't think God is nearly as stuffy as we've made Him out to be, especially on Sunday mornings. There are a few songs in this collection that take that idea and run with it, almost to the point of being rebellious. "My Love" and "Sweet Child of Mine" are two of them. They're musically and lyrically fun. Christian, my son, really took a liking to them and hopes to sing them at school and church. A personal favorite is the most poignant "You're Safe Here."

Dream is a very deep experience. If all of these songs are from Caleb's heart and some of the experiences he's had (and maybe still has), he’s had some very heavy things on his mind. As a writer, he and his partners have done a remarkable job of saying just enough to allow me, as the listener, to place myself in the lyrics and the places the songs bring us to. At the same time though, there were a couple of moments I sorta had that sensation of relief you get after reading a suspenseful book and realizing you were only the reader. Good though is the fact that on this record no dilemma or difficult situation is left in a state of hopelessness. In every song, God always comes through.

To anyone who wishes to clap along to happy tunes about the sweet by-and-by or Peter's pearly gates or golden roads or happy reunions, this is not that kind of gospel record. Not even close really. These songs are about a testimony that's still being made here on earth. And as young as Caleb is, there is still a lot of dreaming yet to do. I’m anxious to hear about it.

To get Caleb’s recording Dream click here or go to www.calebcollins.com.

come now, children.

It really doesn't bother me at all that President Obama is talking to the kids of America today. I have confidence in the conversations I've already had with my own kids and I trust their intellect. They know why I believe what I believe. I have a relationship with them that trumps that of the president. They have more reason to trust me than him. I didn't have to prove it by yelling at a congressman or shouting down another civic minded neighbor who happens to disagree with me or by sporting a crude bumper sticker.

I think it's because of my current government job, or past political jobs, that a lot of my family and many of my friends ask me about things politic. I'm always asked my opinion on current campaigns, debates, bills, policies and laws on the state and national level. "We gonna be able to gamble in Kentucky anytime soon?" "They gonna take Rush Limbaugh off the radio?" "Can you get me out of this ticket?" I always try to answer the fiercely partisan stuff as unpartisan as I can - the way news reporters should but don't always.

My toned down and parsed responses, which are probably a product of my having to speak politically strategic for so many years (don't pick an unnecessary fight), are often met with a little disappointment. Nowadays, it seems conservatives like to see liberal blood - and vice versa. Truth is, in my opinion, most of the stuff we hear over and over again on talk radio and cable news and morning TV is just scripted screaming meant to rile, enrage and scare us mad. And it seems to be working.

Some guy on the radio yesterday asked if Obama had anything more important to do than use up two hours of his kid's school day with liberal indoctrination. I'm betting the caller is a Republican. I'd also wager that he would've been all about Junior and all of his young "liberal" friends sitting in on President Reagan's address to the classrooms back in '88. A wise word or two from a great conservative would be good for the lot of them. I don't remember if the Dems were making issues of the GOP president's talk back then, but if they did, they were just as guilty of paranoia peddling as all these professional talkers nowadays who are trying their best to make our current president the dictator of the next Holocaust.

I'm not about giving President Obama free reign. I have some serious concerns about the structure and strength of the new federal health care plan he's pushing. Most of my questions are about who and what is covered, what it's going to cost, how it'll be paid for and all the trickery in its administration. History proves that the folks in DC are reckless managers without much practical money sense.

I'm concerned that so much of our auto and banking industries are owned by the government. It's always an issue to me when what is supposed to be a privately owned or publicly traded company is in the hands of the same people who are armed and charged with keeping our foreign enemies at bay. And I don't like that the most powerful home-office in the world has so many extreme thinking "czars" with desks only steps from the oval, who have no congressional oversight and answer only to the president.

However, most of the media chatter I'm hearing is hypocritical. If this president goes on vacation he gets beat up by the same people with mics or web sites who supported President Bush's right to get away for a few days. All POTUS' vacay for a while. (Like a president ever is really on vacation anyway??) The talkers who bash Obama for wanting to encourage kids to study hard, stay in school and do their homework are all about sainting Mr. Reagan who did the same thing twenty years ago. (I am a big Reagan fan BTW.)

In war, the objective is to destroy the enemy. Politics isn't much different. Convince the public that everyone who disagrees with your point of view is an evil racist or a bigot or an elitist or a radical extremist or just plain stupid and you're on your way to winning the battle. The White House is not above it. Neither is the House or Senate or the leaders of either party. Neither are the TV/radio talkers and bloggers who know how to play the game. It's their job. They are expected to be loud and take issue with every deed and magnify every flaw of their political opposite.

All of that being said, I'm as grateful as anyone that ours is a country where it's possible to disagree with whoever is in charge of the government for the moment and say so wherever, however we want. I just hate it when the school kids make us grownups look like the juvies.

do hoarders go to heaven?

I'm a hoarder. Saying it out loud sounds kinda dirty. But I am. I keep things that are supposed to be temporary thinking maybe they'll be useful again - maybe. I'm bad enough that one time when a friend obviously made a quick stop at the store to pick up a card on the way to my birthday dinner, and just stuffed it in the envelope without writing on it or signing it, I put my name on it and gave it to another friend a few days later. Why waste a clean card? Had I not been a hoarder that card wouldn't have had the chance to bring cheer to yet another happy birthdayee.

For about the last year and a half I've been using my extra bedroom as a "temporary" storage space. When my very patient former in-laws got tired of going into their attic and stepping around all my stuff, they kindly took it all out and dropped it off at my parent's house. When my parents decided to clean out their garage it was time for me to take possession of the eight or ten boxes of who knows what. So, I carried them all home, took them straight to the back bedroom and told myself I'd go through them on my next free weekend. About a year later, this past weekend, I finally did it.

Evidently I'm a longtime hoarder. Most of this stuff goes back to the 1980s at least. Why in the world would I have kept roller skate toe stoppers? I'm wondering what the significance of the yellow handkerchief is. I'll bet it used to be white. Regardless, why would I hang onto it? Keeping pictures makes sense. My yearbooks and notes from old flames and hard-researched thesis papers and certificates and diplomas and newspaper clippings, my cap and gown and school programs and trophies all make sense. But a little bag of rice?? Was this ever my wallet?

I'd forgotten that I earned a letter jacket in high school. All that work and money to Lee College so I can be a preacher and all I've got now is framed papers behind cracked glass. A silk rose... Wonder whose wedding? Pictures of Kim, Chris, Troy, Robbie, Elizabeth, Danny, Tracy, Sheri and so many other friends from so many years ago looking like I remember most of them the last time I saw them. We promised we'd stay in touch. We even put it in writing in each other's yearbooks. People don't believe me when I tell them I played two parts in "Oklahoma" one night at Madison Central High School. Now I have proof. And here, I'm wearing those famous von Trapp family curtains that Maria made for us. Fun! I was Friedrich, the oldest boy whose voice had changed although mine hadn't really, yet. Tell me I wasn't a good actor.

Hoarders aren't good at tossing things. Although my attic is a mess, the rest of my house is not a piled up depository. As a matter of fact, as much as I'm a hoarder in private, in my line-of-sight space I like things nice and orderly, without clutter. I kept the back bedroom door closed.

After I sorted through the boxes that my in-laws and my parent's had stored for me, I bought new, fresh, plastic ones and re-put the memories inside for safe keeping - again. Until I get up the nerve to take on the attic. They'll be fine.

stringing for amy the pcv

I'm guilty, and I've been feeling it. So, the notes and the threats from my adoring fan(s) hoping to prompt me to do something bloggish haven't been necessary. The encouragement though is always nice, especially since I've been waking up most everyday these last couple of weeks with the urge to sit on the big red couch and start talking. I've actually even started at least a handful of posts and just fizzled out or got distracted before the thought was complete. My drafts folder is loaded with incomplete ramblings and things that were pretty topical for the moment. I've also made lots of notes about things bouncing around my brain. Plenty a thought has crossed my mind - some dreadful, some weird and some sorta meaningful. So, that being said, the next several days I'll prolly hop to and fro and ramble in an effort to catch up.

I tied one on for Amy the other day. The moment she left the US for her two year stint as a Peace Corp Volunteer I wrapped a little string around my ankle and made a firm knot to keep it in place. I see it everyday and it reminds me of my super friend who I miss right now more than I know how to express. It'll be there until Namibia lets us have her back. I get an email from her when she can catch some Net service, and I read them all like an anticipated next chapter. We also get to follow Amy's PCV journey at http://amywickliffeinafrica.blogspot.com/.

Now, I've gotta go blow my nose. Allergies...