Dear Buster...

    

A quiet, gentle soul amidst a storm of dirt

A level, wise driver beneath his familiar cap.

A precious gate keeper in turn four,

Our Buster carefully counted every single lap.

Husband to his dear Angie for most of her life.

Together they traveled thousands of miles side by side.

Every state line added to a collection of storied images

Kicked back with each other trying to enjoy the ride.

Friend to all and partial to none.

Working feverishly to make an informed call.

Entangled among the voices of protest

Tempted to put a cheater behind the wall.

First on the scene when metal grew twisted.

Shovel and extinguisher readily at hand.

No fear nor regard for his own well being

When it came time to help a fellow man.

A loyal friend from day one.

A solid shake behind that worn and tattered glove.

A sparkle in his eye as he took you in.

So much about Buster a friend could love.

And in the speed of forty laps,

he'd stop us solidly with one request.

He spied a lonesome dog too close to the cars,

To safety, he carried them all by his chest.

More than once we lingered in the pits

as the drivers and cars left our sight.

Propped up on a truck bed he'd recall every race.

Sometimes we found ourselves teased by sunlight.

"Buster Cupp....Lone Mountain," he'd proclaim to my spouse.

"H  Smith....Cedar Fork," became the standard reply.

Two pals, once caught up in smoke and laughter,

Together stand shaking hands in the glory of  Heaven tonight.

As the sun came up and the dew stopped falling,

He'd take off his gloves and store them for a time.

He'd go to the pole, and turn out the lights,

And a quiet still crept across the finish line.

Despite the darkness he shifted toward us,

He never really wanted to leave the track.

He found comfort in the dirt he carried home,

And every week he anxiously came back.

Watch over us, sweet Buster, I humbly ask of you.

We are broken and our spirit is dark to its core.

We know we are not supposed to question,

So in our faith, we'll just love you a little more. 

We'll take care of your Angie,

And we'll watch out for your family, too.

We promise to be loyal in your absence,

And we know God is standing there with you.

Stand tall on those golden streets.

Let your wings ease the burden of your load.

Find those who have been waiting to see you,

Find peace like you have never known.

Shine down on us with God's favor.

Give us strength as we travel alone.

Raise us up from this pain and selfishness,

And we will see you when God calls us home.

Love,

Danna

Choir Leader.

    Once the giggly anticipation of my Christmas card delivery settled in my skin,  I knew I had to get myself straight before I went to my mom's house today for Christmas Eve.  It is a house of the Lord.  If you don't know this scripture before you go through the door, you will know it when you leave.

Matthew 18:20
For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.



    Earlier today I noticed that my friend, Lecha Rouse, had posted Whitney Houston's performance of "Do You Hear What I Hear?" on Facebook, and I froze.  I found myself shallowly thankful for YouTube and the technology to bring that authentic gift from God through my speakers while Whitney filled my space once again like she has for more than half my life. 

    When I was a child, I was taught about a choir of angels surrounding the Lord in Heaven.  I had a Crayola inspired image of what that choir must look like.  I'm sure I've drawn it a hundred times on Home Federal note paper in church.  If I drew in church, I had to draw spiritual pictures.  I saw yellows, whites, silvers, and golds all adorning child like figures while the air looks fuzzy as their voices rise.  Until today, that image never changed.  Until today, I imagined God's chorus to be one of simplicity.  Until I asked myself, "Do You Hear What I Hear?" today, I thought God's chorus might look like Charlie Brown's Christmas musical. 

    Can you imagine what it has been like in Heaven this week?  I've complained about alarm clocks, deadlines, evaluations, stress, and traffic here on earth for a month.  I've been equally cranky during the past week. Like many of you, I found myself before the television because I felt morally obligated to watch the people of Sandy Hook as they undoubtedly faced hell on earth.  But today, I stopped complaining.  Today, when I read Lecha's post, I stopped being sad about those babies.  I stopped questioning God. 

    Today, when I listened to Whitney sing, "Do you know what I know?" I answered, "Yes."

    As I sit at this keyboard tonight with music blaring from every possible speaker, not caring if I wake up Lightnin' or Orville next door, I have a new image of what the Lord's choir looks like this Christmas. 

    There are twenty children standing before their choir teacher.  Her silver wings rise with the volume and strength of her voice. Her robe is white and emphasizes notes with her body as she rises and falls with every note.  They are wearing little white robes, and their gold wings are tiny.  Their wings don't rise, but they flutter quickly when the notes get high.  They've been practicing since Friday before last.  She met them at the gates and welcomed them to her music class because they must never be afraid to learn or go to school. There are no auditions; everyone became a member.  Harps and trumpets are trying to keep up with their teacher, and a Little Drummer Boy is working feverishly to respectfully follow the teacher's lead.  In just over seven days, the choir is ready, and today, they have begun their performance.   

    Tonight, as I sit in my little nerd cubicle,  I know that Whitney Houston is leading a choir of angels in Heaven.  Tonight, I have decided that her purpose was never to entertain you or me here on earth.  Her time here was merely practice.  Tonight, I am believing, because I can, her purpose, and the purpose of that powerful, timeless voice, has been to lead a choir of twenty angelic children as they praised our God and celebrated the birth of His son on this night in Heaven.  That image has allowed me to make peace with madness, to stop questioning, and to know that nothing I hear on earth will sound as beautiful as it will sound there.

     I found the lyrics to the song, and they read, "Way up in the sky, little lamb, do you see what I see?"  I'm sure those twenty little lambs had been watching that star dancing in the night for weeks before they were taken to grasp it.  Later, a lyric says, "Do you hear what I hear ringing through the sky, shepherd boy, do you hear what I hear?" I am sure the little boys from Sandy Hook can hear a song far above any trees and the voice that is big as the sea belongs to Whitney.

     "Said the king to the people everywhere, listen to what I say pray for peace, people everywhere! Listen to what I say."  I've heard the song for forty-one years, and the lyrics never resonated with me like they have today.  I never took the time to sit down and study their meaning.  I never took the time to give the lyrics any power.  It's hard to hear the text when Whitney's voice delivers the sound.  The song says we should pray for peace.  I don't think that is about war, conflict, or politics.  I think we are supposed to pray for peace in the hearts of Sandy Hook's residents and the people left behind.  For I know, if I know nothing else, the twenty angels are earning A+'s in choir tonight.

      In the end, Whitney sings, "He will bring us goodness and light."  Each of us has a reason to give in to pain during the holiday season.  We each awake on this day with some degree of loss.  We each awake with some scar of disappointment.  But, we still woke up.  This holiday will be what we make it.  And, I do believe, He will bring us goodness and light just like Whitney sings He will.

     Can you imagine growing up with Whitney as your mother teaching you the words to "Jesus Loves Me"?  Can you imagine her voice at a Christmas gift exchange?  Can you imagine that power, talent, and force filling your home each holiday season?  And then, can you imagine the silence this year?  Can you imagine the silence in Sandy Hook or in Whitney's home? 

      I can't hear that silence, but I can hear that choir of twenty angels working hard to please their teacher and their God. 

      Step out on your porch and look up.  Close your eyes.  Hold your heart.  Let me know if you hear what I hear.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aF_wZPUtpxA

     

    

    



The Making of My Christmas Card 2012

     "I know I gave birth to you, but I swear, when you get me into these fixes, I sometimes wonder if you came from under a cabbage leaf."  Mom said those words to me as she climbed in the bug to prepare for the day's adventure.  I've got pictures of so many people I love, but I sure don't have many photographs of Mom and me together.  Now, I don't think I need very many.  In fact, I think I might just need the one you see at the heading of this entry.  I really don't know how I could possibly design a pose to depict our relationship any better.
      I learned at an early age that Santa is a second string player in the whole glory that is Christmas.  My mom taught me about Jesus first.  She taught me to believe about a baby born in a manger.  That established the idea of what "believe" meant in my young mind.  After I knew God's reason for our most glorious season, then she got busy with Santa (no pun intended).  We didn't need an elf on our shelf.  When you live with Bebe and you know Jesus is on her side, you must be good.  Period.  Santa was never used as a threat regarding my behavior.  Jesus, the Ten Commandments, and switch were a promise.
     At some point in my adult life, the Joseph went missing from her manger scene and I still live in constant paranoia that she thinks I stole her Joseph.  I swear; I didn't.  Holly Cheek has shopped literally from Middlesboro to Italy trying to find a proper replacement for Mom's missing Joseph, and there isn't one to be found.  Every year at Thanksgiving, Mom starts talking about what she'd like to give me for Christmas, and then she says, "I'd get you something else, but I know you have my Joseph." This is my public plea for help.  Please, if you see Mom in public, tell her I don't have her Joseph.  No matter how well I try to behave, this Joseph issue comes up every year.
      So, I convinced her we would be darling.  I convinced her we would be divas.  I convinced her that I'd behave, say no bad words, and promised not one hair on her head would be out of place when we finished.  After our glam squad work, some costume fittings, and pose discussions, we finally looked into the camera and made up for a lot of lost time in pictures. 

     Today, my aunt Sandy sent me an email and reminded me of an image I'd give gold to have on film today.  My papaw Steve loved Christmas as much as he loved fishing.   Sandy reminded me though that every year,  a small, crooked line of Christmas lights would adorn the hand built fence row that invited guests to enter through an antique gate like all of your grandparents had.  I had forgotten about those lights, and I try so hard not to forget.  I've tried to imagine what my papaw would think if he saw this picture.  I'm pretty sure he'd look at mom and say, "Well, at least you're a ten point."

    I have had a happiness headache for days waiting for the actual cards to reach far distant lands where my family members call home.  I've wanted to come here to ...hellofuzzy... and tell you about the happiest photo shoot of my life, but I managed to restrain from pointing and clicking and ruining a surprise.  This was absolutely the work of more than merely me.  Daniel England secured the location and shot the pictures for us.  I cannot thank him enough.  The wardrobe was supplied by another of Santa's elves, but I can't reveal those details for fear of ruining some magic for my young readers of ...hellofuzzy...  That particular elf and his wife know I'm thankful that they entrusted me with such a heirloom.  Mom was sitting on a stack of dictionaries.  If she sat in the actual seat, you could only see the tippy top of her antlers, and that just would not do.
     For as many laughs, giggles, and chuckles these images have provided you, knowing that our Christmas card has brought joy to a few homes has really filled Mom and me up with more pride and sparkle than two gals should be allowed to contain by law.  We've spent hours on the phone, texting, calling, and emailing each other while compiling US Post Office delivery stats, "Who have you heard from today?" while we compared notes regarding your responses to what we hope has been a very Merry Christmas surprise from us to you.

Now, here's a picture of Mom adjusting her "rack."  (again...no pun intended)

    And, in a moment of sincerity, know that I am thankful for my ...hellofuzzy... world and all of you who read my words and share my spirit.  As Christmas Day approaches, let us gather with those we love and hold them just a little bit tighter this year than last...simply because we can. 

    Merry Christmas from ...hellofuzzy...  and Bebe, too. 



   

    

I'm Watching the Making of a Leader

    He was in my 8th grade language arts class many years ago, but from the time he came into my classroom, I knew I had never met a child with a spirit like his.  He was too big to sit comfortably in our desks, so I had to place him at my desk.  He'd come in with his humble heart, sit down, and we'd get to work on the tasks of the day.  The only time he ever failed to meet an obligation was when I asked him to find an address of his favorite commercial product so we could learn how to write a complimentary letter to the company.  With one phone call to a local grocery store, that problem was solved. 
    Brian O'Dell is a force to be reckoned with in many regards, but I must say that one of the highlights of my professional career has been watching him make the transition from awkward middle school student to one amazing coach and role model for the athletes who play basketball at SMMS. 
   Anyone who takes on the responsibilities of coaching has earned a crown; the job is about so much more than four quarters.  A coach is someone who tries to lead children, communicate effectively with parents, maintain good relationships with community members, and in the process, works him/herself to the point of exhaustion while trying to conduct practices, present a class act during games, raise money, and monitor student athlete grades.  It's a job I would never want to have, but if I had a son, and if he loved basketball, I'd move heaven and earth to get him to Brian O'Dell.
    I don't go to the games.  There was a time I was at SMMS every time the gym opened, but old age and battle scars from Junior Pro have kept me at the house.  I did go watch him coach his first game, and as he stood tall amidst the huddle of little dudes looking up at him like he was Superman, I knew that he is where God intends him to be.  I've seen the same glow in other former students whose paths are different from his:  mothers, nurses, teachers, chemists, stylists, artists, college athletes, architecture,  finance students, students of foreign language and business,  attorneys, business owners, pastors, medical therapists,  pharmacists, and fathers.  There is an unmistakable pride that fills me up when I see former students who have found their calling in life, which is so difficult for many to seek.
   It doesn't  take me a split second to tell anyone that I know the standard for coaching in this county will always lie in the hands of  Conk Bryant.  I'll shout that from any roof top stout enough to hold me up while I holler.  But every day that I peek through those gym doors and see Brian with those kids, I see a legacy growing.  I see kids being educated, nurtured, and most importantly, challenged.  He has high academic expectations because he produced top grades while he was a student athlete.  He has high moral and ethical expectations because he was raised by a family who taught him the same from day one.  He is an outstanding role model for our young men, and I'm so proud of him. 
    To be a teacher, and to watch from the outside looking in at a former student who's doing work that changes lives, there are few greater gifts in this profession.