Depending upon when you happen to be reading this, I’ll either be leaving for, driving to, or at the beach. It’s vacation time for me, and that’s always meant the ocean.

And I’ll be honest. I need a break. I’ve been more than a little stressed lately, and I haven’t been able to visit you all nearly as much as I’d like. But there was one thing I had to do before I left, and this is part of it.

The other part is over on Katdish’s blog.

I had quite a few people last week ask about my as yet unpublished book (which is actually books). Some wanted a little taste of it. So true to my Southern upbringing, I decided to go all out.

Since my posts this week will most likely be beach related, Katdish has kindly allowed me to post half of the first chapter on her blog today and the other half next Monday.

I’ve never been one to speak highly of myself, but I will say that this may be the best story I’ve ever written. I will never forget that day, and I will never forget little Jordan. She taught me a lot. I can only hope I taught her a little.

So why don’t you stop on over there and take a look, and I’ll see you back here tomorrow. I’ll be trading my boots for flip flops and a front porch for a balcony, but you can’t beat the view and there’s still plenty of room to sit.

Don’t worry about finding me. I’ll leave the light on for you.

You do stupid things when you’re seventeen. Things that maybe don’t make much sense later, but certainly do at the moment. It’s a scary age. You stand right on the pivot point of your life, teetering and tottering between the child you were and the adult you want to become. You try to find your balance, but more often just stumble and fall.

At seventeen, I stumbled and fell.

I referenced Allison in one of my posts this week and the events surrounding her then-anonymous letter to me, and I alluded to what I considered at the time to be a one-way trip into the mountains above my town. At the time, I wrote only what I had to in order to put the rest of the story in perspective. But since so many of you wanted to know how I came to Christ, I’m going to do that right now.

Here’s the part I didn’t tell.

The sad thing about high school is that everyone from teachers to guidance counselors expects you to be able to plan the rest of your life. That’s just not possible. Being a senior in high school is all about living in the moment. The now. It’s enjoying what you have because you’ve realized you won’t have it much longer.

Me, I enjoyed my senior year for that very reason. I was leaving. Headed for either college or some major league farm system. So while my classmates crammed and studied and stressed over SATs, me and my motley crew of friends partied, fought, and chased girls. Looking back, I was being stupid. But at the time? Oh, it was magical.

But it’s usually when we manage to convince ourselves that we have the world on a string that the string breaks. Mine broke during the sixth inning of a baseball game. Not slowly, mind you. I didn’t hear it tighten, didn’t hear it strain. There was just one clean, violent snap.

My future was there, then it was not.

Then there was nothing.

Men define themselves by what they do. It’s one of the first questions we’ll ask when meeting another man for the first time. “What do you do for a living?” we’ll ask. Me, I was always going to answer “Ballplayer” to that question. That was all I had. All I was.

I was an awkward teenager. Never confident, never truly happy. But when I stepped between those lines I was both. It was the one thing in my life that brought me joy.

Also the one thing God took away.

In a matter of weeks I had spiraled downward into the blackest hole I had ever known. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat…couldn’t feel. I was dead inside. Seventeen and dead already.

Those classmates I had been secretly mocking all year I now secretly loathed. They had their entire lives in front of them. Years of happiness. All I had were years of regret and Coulda Been. And I just couldn’t live with that. I just couldn’t live at all.

What I needed, what I craved, was rest. I had shrunk myself down to a gaunt 120 pounds and developed a pack a day Marlboro habit. I couldn’t sleep because of recurring nightmares and couldn’t eat without getting sick. I was killing myself slowly. So why not just get the whole thing over with?

People decide to kill themselves for the simple reason that doing so no longer prolongs the inevitable. Suicide seems like the most rational thing in the world, which is why at that moment you are as insane as you will ever be. I was never going to find rest in this world. The last shred of hope I had said that maybe I would find it in the next.

One thing was for sure. I was going to do it right. My end had to come in the mountains, of course, which was where so much of my life had been lived. And it would come with the obligatory teenage angst, too. I had the music picked out (Cinderella) and the alcohol already stolen (a bottle of Night Train from the local 7-11, snatched after I had sweet-talked the cashier into going into the back to get me a cold Coke. I was always a charmer). I was going to smoke a few cigarettes, down the bottle of three-dollar wine, and jump. For rest. And there would be a smile on my face the whole way down.

There, on that ledge, was when God first spoke to me. “You’re not afraid of dying,” He said, “You’re afraid of living.”

That was true. It didn’t take God to make me realize that. But it didn’t matter. Like I said, my world was black. There were no shining parts, no points of light.

“What if there’s one?” He said. “One point of light. Would you leave?”

I took a long sip of wine and tossed a spent cigarette into the bushes. “How’m I supposed to see a light in all this darkness?” I mumbled.

I looked down over the valley below, quiet and peaceful. And in the middle of all that blackness, I saw one tiny speck of light.

That’s when I left.

I drove home with no music and no alcohol. The cigarettes, of course, were still with me. I decided to take a dirt road home to avoid the police, not considering the potholes that would accompany it. I managed to dodge most of them, but the one I did hit sent my Marlboro light flying out of my mouth and onto the floorboard.

I pulled over at a small church so I could find the cigarette before I managed to either ruin the floor mat or explode my truck. I parked under the light post so I could find it. I did. As I tossed it to the side of the road, my eyes wandered to what had been put on the sign in front of the church:

OUR REST IS IN CHRIST ALONE.

I stared at that sign for a long while. Coincidence? Maybe, I thought. There were a lot of churches around with a lot of things on their front signs. But then I realized this was the only sign I would be able to see this time of night because this was the only church with a light post.

I looked back up the mountain to where I had been, and shuddered as I realized two things. One was that it was not a coincidence at all. The other was that the light post I was under was the speck of light I had seen that convinced me to live.

Frisbies Forever wanted to know: “How did you meet your wife?”

Folks around here tend to judge the quality of a conversation by means of what I call The Porch Factor. Your regular, everyday chats about the weather and the crops are pretty low on the scale. But the sorts of conversations we’ve been having this week? That’s what I call porch sittin’ talk.

The sun’s up, the birds are out, and if you inhale you’ll get a noseful of honeysuckle. And I have my obligatory pitcher of tea for everyone, though I had to go back inside and get Annie a glass without sugar. She’s difficult like that sometimes, but you learn to put up with her. On the plus side, though, Kat’s been kind enough to bring cookies.

Now that everyone’s finally comfortable, where were we?

Tina at The Homestead Heart, who not only has the coolest header picture but also the only blog in the world with my button above Pete Wilson’s, asked, “1) Any fictional stories rattling around in your heart? Have you written any? If so, can we see a chapter from one?2) Favorite summertime drink. Me? Ice water, iced tea, limeade.3) Do you have anything you’d like us to pray for you about?”

I’m in awe of fiction writers. Their ability to conjure people and places amazes me. It’s something I’ve never tried but have seriously considered, but the process seems so overwhelming. As for chapters, though, whenever I get a rejection from an agent or a publisher because “there is no concrete market for your book,” I’ll secretly use a scaled-down chapter as a post to see if that’s true. I’m not sure it is.

Favorite drink? When I was a kid, my grandmother had a small plot of mint growing beside a huge willow tree in her backyard. She’d pick some every time I was over and make the best tea I’ve ever tasted. I’ve tried to duplicate that since but just can’t seem to get it right. That’s okay, though. When I get to heaven, she’ll be waiting there with a glass just for me.

And as for prayers, they would be greatly appreciated. There seems to be a lot going on right now that’s both good and bad and exciting and scary at the same time, and I need all the help I can get.

Denise at A Sacred Longing asked, “Who is the one person that has influenced your writing most and why?”

Without a doubt that would be Judy Hevener, my high school English teacher. I’m not sure what she saw beyond the ripped jeans and Motley Crue t-shirts I used to wear, but she saw something. I was the one who told her writing wasn’t exactly a manly pursuit. She was the one who gave me a copy of The Old Man and the Sea and told me to think again. She became my first audience and my first fan, and I’ll never forget that.

Annie at Hope42day wondered, “What is your favorite word? and When you arrive in heaven, what would you like to hear God say?”

Ironically, Annie, that word is “hope.” There have been many times in my life when I’ve had neither love nor faith and still managed to get by. I’ve only been without hope once and barely made it through and to the other side. That’s a very dark place, and I never want to go back there again.

When I get to heaven, the first words I’d like to hear God say are, “Well done, My good and faithful servant.” The second words are, “Ballfield’s over there. The game’s getting ready to start, and we need a shortstop.” I’m not sure yet if I’ll hear the first. Pretty sure I’ll hear the second, though.

RCUBEs at Off The Beaten Trek asked, “Did you take a writing class or everything developed from a deep passion of writing?”

I’ve never taken a writing class, though I suspect I probably should. I was considering going back to college to major in English a few years ago, but an editor warned me it would ruin my “style.” Not sure what she meant by that exactly, but she scared me into taking her advice.

So yes, most of it is just deep passion. I try to write a thousand words a day of something, whether it’s a post, a column, or a manuscript. I do read a lot of books about writing, though. Ralph Keyes has two of the best you could ever read: The Courage to Write, and The Writer’s Book of Hope (yep, there’s that word again).

Mylestones wanted to know, “What is your all time favorite book (or author). Besides the Bible of course.”

Aside from my affinity for children’s books, I think my favorite book was written by my favorite author: Robert Fulghum’s All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten. I don’t agree with everything he says, but he says it well. Our writing styles and our outlook on life are similar, and we both like to ponder the Big Things through the lens of the everyday.

I’d really like to have dinner with him once. We could trade stories over a nice bottle of wine and some fine cigars.

Kat at Heart 2 Heart had a great question: “What are three of your favorite smells and why do you like them?”

In no particular order:

1) At the expense of further exposing my redneck tendencies, I love the smell of fresh dirt. Mostly because it usually means the cold has gone, the hot is here, and everything’s going to be okay. But partly because I know I’m about to get filthy. Like I said, redneck tendencies.

2) My wife and I honeymooned in Key West, Florida. We went snorkeling along the reef one afternoon on a catamaran, and I sat with my legs hanging off the bow and watched as two sea turtles swam just ahead of us. Everything was perfect–sun, sails, and sea–and all combined for the sweetest scent I’d ever been privileged to encounter. I’ll never forget that smell.

3) The barbecued chicken at the town carnival. I know that sounds corny, but it’s true. The carnies come to town every July and set up shop in the parking lot of the Old Schoolhouse Restaurant. Clanky rides and cotton candy abound. And barbecued chicken. The volunteer fire department makes most of their donations for the year through that chicken, and people come from all over to eat it. Yuppies sit with cowboys, and city folk sit with mountain folk. And every year we all discover the same thing: deep down, none of us are that different at all.

Okay, folks. We’re rolling right along. Meet me back here tomorrow. I’ll fire up the grill!

Just in case any of you are late to the party, you can catch up on the first round of relatively painless questions here. And I’m kidding when I say relatively painless. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but you folks have been easy on me. One quick thing, though. If you emailed me your questions, could you do so again? Because for reasons I’m still trying to understand, the email monster ate them last night.

Okay, let’s head back out onto the porch and split a pitcher of iced tea. You do the asking, and I’ll do the telling…

Jill, who blogs at Forever n Ever n Always, asked, “I too would like to know how you found Jesus?”

I started writing the answer to that last night, Jill. That’s maybe the toughest question I’ve gotten so far because it’s the most personal story, and it’s pretty intense. But after a lot of typing and a lot more backspacing, it’s coming along. I’ll have it up Saturday.

Warren Baldwin wanted to know about my job: “You’ve mentioned that you work at a college. What do you do there? If you teach, what subjects? Do you teach a Bible class at your church?”

I don’t teach a Bible class at church, though I think I’ve come along far enough to be comfortable talking in front of a group of people. It’s easy for me to open up in front of a computer screen. Not so easy in front of others. I guess that’s why I’m a writer instead of a public speaker.

I always wanted to be a college professor, but they usually only let you do that if you have a college degree. I don’t. I got a little lost after high school and did give higher education a try, but I discovered that for me, for me, I could learn a lot more about life by walking around in the mountains than I could by sitting in a classroom. But that was twenty years ago. College is a lot more important now than it was then.

As far as my job, I supervise the campus postal service. And yes, it is just as exciting as it sounds. But it gets me out in the sunshine, keeps me in shape, and gives me a daily view of both life and people. I’ve gotten a lot of stories on my daily walk of five miles or so. I’ll take it.

twofinches at Girl in a Glass House asked, “What moved you from loving to write to ‘being a writer’?”

A letter from Allison. And if anyone out there happens to know her, ask her to email me. I’ve been waiting about twenty years to tell her I’m sorry.

Julie over at Jewelz Sightings asked something similar: “What are some prominent moments in your journey with God? Is there a transforming moment you will never forget, other than your receiving the greatest gift of all? Some of the questions others have asked I’d like to know too. Have you always lived in the Blue Ridge mountains?”

Last question first: if you stand in my front yard and turn left, I was born about twelve miles that way. If you turn right, I grew up about five miles that way. So yes, much of my thirty-six years has been spent within a twenty-mile radius. My sleepy little town isn’t as sleepy as it used to be, but it’s still home and always will be. The only way I’d leave is if I could move up into the mountains and look down on it every day.

There have been so many prominent moments in my journey with God. I’ve walked away from Him many times thinking I knew better than He did, only to find deserts where I thought there’d be oceans. I’d realize then that I had to turn around and walk back to Him, and I’d also realize it would just be too far for me to go. Thankfully, each time I turned around to see that He’d been walking right there beside me the whole time.

As for the transforming moment, I hate to do this again, but Saturday. Promise.

KM at gzusfreek asked, “Do you have a favorite author? a favorite celebrity? Do you write short stories? If you could be one of JRR Tolkien’s characters, which would you be?”

Wow, favorite author. I own every book C.S. Lewis wrote, and any one of them is always on my bedside table. But honestly? Since finding the big stuff in the small stuff is pretty much everything I write about, my favorite authors wrote more for kids than adults. Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Dr. Seuss, and A.A. Milne were geniuses in my opinion. I read Winnie-the-Pooh to my kids at night as much for my benefit as theirs. And don’t snicker, because last night Christopher Robin said this: “If ever there is a tomorrow when we’re not together, there is something you must always remember. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is, even if we’re apart…I’ll always be with you.”

Yeah. Told ya.

A favorite celebrity? I hope musicians count, because to me Brad Paisley is my long-lost brother. One of the alumns from the college has her own catering business in Nashville, and she had to take a bunch of food up to his cabin for a party. She pulled up, and he pulled up beside her. On his tractor. He wiped off his hand, shook hers, and then carried everything into the house for her. More celebrities need to be like this. More people need to be like this.

I don’t write short stories, though I’d like to give it a try. And as far as being one of Tolkien’s characters, I’d love to say I’d be Aragorn. But I’m pretty flawed in a lot of ways despite my efforts, so I’d say I lean more toward Boromir.

Lianne stopped by not once but twice to ask me questions. She’s too nice to for me to call her nosey though, so I won’t: “Do you have a really great memory, or do you jot down all these wonderful conversations that you have that lead to these awesome posts? Which leads to…Do you really have all these wonderful conversations? How much “embellishing” do you do? (I can’t believe I asked that last one. Please don’t un-follow me. )” And then, later: “Boxers or briefs…NO! Don’t answer that! Just kidding!What’s under the hat? That’s what I want to know. Purple mohawk? Buzz cut? No hair? Jennifer Aniston haircut? I NEED to know. ”

Two kids will shoot whatever memory you happen to have, which is why I carry a notebook with me wherever I go. Even when I’m in the house. A good idea tends to disappear on you going from the living room into the kitchen.

Under the hat? Buzz cut. Sorry to disappoint you. I was flirting with the Jennifer Aniston haircut for a while there, but then I’d have to get out of bed earlier.

As far as embellishing goes, it’s a question I’m asked often. I get a lot of “Is this going to be in your book?” Ordinarily you would expect such an inquiry to be expressed with an air of hopeful optimism. You would perhaps think that people would want to be mentioned in print. But not in this case. Usually, the question is followed by some threatening declaration like, “Because if it is, you’d better leave me out of it.”

It is an understandable reaction among small-town folks. Everybody might know everybody’s business around here, but that doesn’t mean they go around talking about it, and it really doesn’t mean they write it down for the whole world to read.

So this is what I tell them: let me tell the story. What happened and Why it did are my interests. Who and When and Where usually aren’t. There is Truth, and there is truth. I’m much more interested in the former than the latter. So I promise that I’ll wobble things enough to protect any innocence. Or guilt, for that matter. That way I can say what needs to be said without having half the town coming up my driveway with pitchforks and torches, and they can continue to remain anonymous. Win-win, I say.

Okay, let’s stop here. I’m really liking this, and I hope all of you are, too. Why don’t you meet me back here on the porch in the morning? I’ll make extra tea.

I have to say that I’m looking forward to answering all these questions. Things tend to get a little serious and heavy around here from time to time. My opinion, of course. But it’s nice to lighten things up from time to time, and it’s also nice not to have to work my brain so hard this week getting ready for vacation. The ocean’s calling. And when the ocean calls, I gotta accept the charges.

I’ve spent the weekend looking over all of your comments, and here’s what I’m going to do: I’m going to take the rest of the week and go straight down the list. That means I’ll probably be posting every day, so check back again tomorrow. Wouldn’t want you missing anything.

One thing, though. A lot of you wanted to hear about how I came to Christ. I’ll be honest and say I didn’t expect that one, though I suppose I should have. That’s a post in itself and one that’s going to be hard to write, so I’ll save that for last. Deal?

Good.

Okay then, let’s get this ball rollin’.

katdish, ever one to remind me of just how integral she is to my nonexistent writing careeer, asked, “Do you go looking for stories, or do they find you? How are you handling your newfound celebrity status since you’ve been writing for HLAC? Inquiring minds wanna know…”

As to the first part, I don’t think I go looking for stories as much as I try to be open to them. My grandmother drilled into my head at a very young age the importance of awareness. “God speaks to us every day and in every situation,” she would tell me. “You just have to be quiet and pay attention.” That advice has served me well. If I want to do anything through this blog, it’s to get people to realize that the very things that happen to me happen to them. Every moment is a holy moment. Every moment is a moment of truth. You just have to be quiet and pay attention to see most of them.

And as for the second part, I’ll say that hiring a security detail to chase away all the agents and editors hasn’t been fun. But since my word is golden, I’ll keep writing for you every Monday anyway.

Joanne Sher asked, “Hmmm – What was the most memorable event of your childhood? (and you’re NOT a child anymore, by the way! hehe) What did you want to be “when you grew up?” Basically – I wanna hear about your childhood. K?”

My childhood can be divided into two separate parts. There was the part when I thought girls were disgusting, and then the part when I figured out they weren’t. Both, however, were dominated by baseball, and there was no doubt in my mind that was what I was going to do for the rest of my life. No doubt. So it stands to reason that the most memorable event of my childhood revolved around that.

My last game of Little League was, up until then, the biggest game I’d ever played. I was pitching in the championship game against the best team in four counties, and I was petrified. Dad pulled me over before the game, spit a stream of tobacco juice, and said, “Don’t get scared. Get mad.”

I faced eighteen batters that night and struck out sixteen of them. And to this day, I can see him telling me those words. I’ve used his advice many times since then. Still works, too.

Denise asked, “How long have you had a love for writing?”

My preschool teacher’s name was Mrs. Rohrbaugh. The memory of what she looked like or who else was in my class is long forgotten, but I do remember the first time she put a piece of paper in front of me, shoved a pencil in my hand, and said, “Have at it.” A few squiggly lines later, and I was a changed boy. Even then I had some sort of basic understanding that I could write something down and it would still be there even if I wasn’t.

Sarah Salter asked, “My question… How’d you meet Jesus, Billy? I wanna know how you met Jesus.”

Saturday. Promise.

And then there is Peter P, asking only questions Peter P could ask: “OOO, Ok, I have 3 questions:1) Which of your toes is your favorite (and why) 2) If you had to choose between writing books and blogging, which would you choose (and why) 3) back in the days, which do you think was the better show, The A-team or Knight Rider?”

I’m gonna take these in order:

1) The fourth toe on my right foot. Partly because the fourth toe never gets any respect, but mostly because it’s the only one I haven’t broken at some point in my life.

2) That’s a tough one. If you’d have asked me that back in September when I first started blogging, I would have said writing books before you even finished the question. But I have met some amazing people blogging. Writing is a lonely job. There’s a sense of community you get through blogging, and I love the instant feedback as to whether something I’ve written either made someone smile or cry. Or, worse, that it made them do nothing at all.

That said, though, I really want to publish my book.

3) Another tough one. I’m gonna have to go with The A-Team over Knight Rider based solely on Mr. T’s bling. But then Annie K had to go and mention The Dukes of Hazard, and that sealed it. Because she’s right. Seriously, look at me:

How could I not be a Hazard fan?

Okay folks, I guess I’ve taken up enough of your time today. How about meeting back here tomorrow for round two? I’ll see you then, and have a good ‘un.

My normal work attire consists of dress pants and oxfords, I enjoy reading Solzhenitsyn and listening to Mozart, I’m a chess nerd, and I love putting on a tuxedo. But all that said, I was born a redneck and that’s how I’m gonna die.

There are a lot of misconceptions about country folk. Many are based upon actual truth. Some are outright lies. But all could use a little clarification in one way or another.

I’m proud of where I live and the people who live here with me. Proud of the fact I live in a place where the pace is slow, the streets are quiet, and the cows outnumber the people. Proud of the fact that if you happen to ask someone for directions to the interstate, you won’t get route numbers and miles for an answer. More likely, you’ll get something like “Well, just take a left at the Conner farm, go a spell, bear to the right past Ms. Hewitt’s place, and take the fork where Old Man Johnson saw that ghost.”

Still, there are those in my life who look upon the lifestyle of my neighbors with a certain degree of ridicule. We’re backward, they say. Narrow-minded.

I had one such conversation recently with a friend of mine, and Katdish has been kind enough to let me share it over on her blog today. So please, stop on by. If you’re country like me, you’ll find your own support group. And if you’re not, I’ll say a prayer for you.

And don’t forget to stop here tomorrow, when it’ll be the start of Get To Know Billy Better Week, and I’ll answer some of your questions.

It wasn’t meant to sound racist, and I didn’t take it that way. But if you would have been walking by when she said it, it maybe would’ve sounded that way. Friends have their own private vocabulary with one another. They get away with saying things that would maybe get them in hot water if said to someone else. That’s especially true when it comes to interracial friends.

So when Rozlyn suggested to me that “White choirs can’t sing right,” I had to snort, but I didn’t take offense.

We had a great choir at church. They dressed in nice robes and stood up straight and belted out the hymns with as much gusto as I’d ever seen. They made people raise their hands and sway back and forth and break out in big, toothy smiles.

But Roz’s choir? Everybody around here talked about Roz’s choir. They didn’t just make people sway and smile. They made people dance. Whether they wanted to or not. To me, there was a big difference between swaying and dancing, and I was curious as to what that difference was. She was the one who brought up the fact that it was because her choir was full of black people and mine was full of white. I wasn’t going to touch that subject, even with her.

“Sure white choirs can sing right,” I said.

She shook her head slowly so I’d understand. “No, they can’t. Now don’t get me wrong, they can sing sure enough. Sing pretty, too. But there’s a difference between singing and singing.”

“There is?” I asked.

Roz shook her head again. “You gotta be the whitest white boy in the world,” she said. “Of course there’s a difference.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Tell you what. You come to my church Sunday night. We’re having a little praise time. You’ll see what I’m talking about.”

So I went. I had to. The curiosity was killing me.

Her church was small by today’s standards. Small but nice. Comfortable. So it was fitting that the man who greeted me at the door was also small, nice, and comfortable.

“Evenin’ to you,” he said as he handed me a bulletin. “Praise the Lord.”

“Back at’cha,” I said, which brought a chuckle and a solid thump to my back.

I took a seat about halfway up on the left side and spent the next ten minutes standing up and sitting down when folks would walk over to welcome me. A few Yes sirs and Thank you ma’ams later, out walked Roz and the rest of the choir.

Sixteen people by my count, ranging in age from sixty to somewhere in the teens. Evenly divided between men and women. Not much different than the choir at our church except for the fact that they weren’t holding sheet music.

The choir director floated behind the pulpit and led us in an opening prayer. His “Amen!” was the cue for the organist to start, the choir director to start directing, and the congregation to stand.

The organist was nearing the end of the introduction and the director began to raise his hands to signal the choir’s entrance. Roz smiled at me and winked, as if telling to me that I’d better get ready. I would have if I’d known what to get ready for.

More organ as the director’s hands slowly lifted upward. Slowly, slowly. Then…down.

What happened next goes well beyond what I can describe with fingers and a keyboard. You’d have to be here, with me, so you could see the expression on my face as I’d tell it. But I’ll try. When the director threw his hands down and the choir sang that first word (fittingly, that first word was “PRAISE!!”), the sound very nearly knocked me backwards into my seat. I had to grab the pew in front of me to balance myself.

The church exploded in song. Some shot their hands into the air. Others clapped. Others pointed their faces toward the ceiling while their eyes gazed beyond and into heaven itself. Tears welled in my eyes at the sound. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t clap, couldn’t raise my hands, couldn’t even breathe. Roz looked at me and smiled. Whitest white boy in the world, indeed.

This wasn’t singing. I knew that then. No, this was singing.

Afterwards, I sat in the parking lot with Roz, her husband, and their daughter.

“See what I mean?” she said.

“Lesson learned,” I told her. “That was incredible.”

“Nothing incredible about it,” she promised. “Just different.”

“I see that,” I said. “Still don’t understand it, though.”

“Look,” she said, “you know I ain’t one of those black people all up in her history. This is my country, not somewheres in Africa, and my kin were slaves, but you ain’t got a hand in that. We’re just the same in a lot of ways, you and me. But there’s a difference. The faith you got from your momma and daddy was come by the easy way. The faith I got from mine wasn’t.

“We found faith out in the fields. Found it getting whipped and beat on and bought and sold. We hurt, you see? That’s why we can sing. Because the more you suffer, the more you have to thank God for when He leads you out of it. Our singing isn’t just praise. It’s thanks, too.”

I saw then. I understood. Roz was right. We can all sing, but only the wounded can sing truly. Only the maimed and the hurt and the bruised and broken. The best voices are those who not only have cause to praise God, but thank Him, too. And that’s good. Because this whitest white boy in the world came to Him as just that.

I’ve read that when it comes to compensation, benefits, work environment, and time off, college professors have the best job in the United States. And since I spend so much of my workday around them, I can’t argue with that assertion. The ones at the college where I work seem happy, are productive members of their community, and have enough extra time on their hands to string together words no one understands to publish books no one reads.

Still, I was curious. Did these people know they had the fortune and blessing to have the nation’s best job? That all of their hard work had paid off to get them the lifestyle of a lifetime? I wasn’t sure. And to me, it felt like something they should know if they didn’t. So I took a few days and asked around.

Two math, one music, three English, a history, and four philosophy professors later, and I was convinced of two things. One was that they knew exactly how blessed they were to have their particular occupation. The other was that it didn’t matter.

Because while all eleven enjoyed their work and got plenty out of it, in their heart of hearts they would still rather be doing something else.

One math professor expressed a lifelong desire for crab fishing, and the other just wanted to run off to Bora Bora. The history professor admitted that she’d always wanted to open a florist shop. Two of the philosophy professors wanted to be farmers, and the other two missionaries. All three English professors wanted to be famous authors rather than ignored ones. And the music professor? “I’ve always wanted to be a bounty hunter,” all one hundred and twenty pounds of him said. (And it’s okay to laugh at that. Because I did).

Those little confessions didn’t surprise me.

Despite what we say about being happy with where and who we are, deep down we’re never where we should be. No matter how hard we chase after our bliss, it always remains just a few steps ahead. Close enough to see, almost close enough to touch, but not quite. There to both inspire us to keep going and taunt us because we haven’t gone far enough.

Psychologists say this difficulty in finding what makes us happy is inborn. As much a part of us as the desire to love and be loved. I want to disagree with that and say that faith can bring us both happiness and a sense of place in this world, but the truth? I have faith, have a sense of happiness and place, but there are still many times when I look at my happy life and think there’s more out there. More happiness. More better.

Whether this makes me any less of a Christian is something I haven’t figured out yet.

There’s a lot to be said for being content with what you have, a sentiment echoed by people from the Apostle Paul (“I’ve learned to be content in whatever circumstances I am”) to Thoreau (“A man is rich in proportion to the number of things he can afford to let alone”) to a country song I heard on my way into work this morning (“…I look around at what everyone has, and I forget about all I’ve got…”).

Wise words, all. And true. Yet here I sit, still wanting more anyway. More dreams, more happiness, more peace.

I suppose we’re all stricken with wanderlust. Deep down we’re all explorers who cannot rest until we reach the next horizon, if only to see what’s there and what’s beyond. The ocean we’re all adrift upon is vast, it’s waters deep, and it’s wonders breathtaking. And though we sail onward, ever searching, our spirits whisper this truth:

We are meant to sail upon the waters of another ocean, where the seas are calm and the winds are fair. And that our happiness now is but a shadow of the happiness that awaits.