The State of Constant, Total Amazement is Deep in the Heart of Texas...and Hawai'i

Captain's Log: Stardate 2018 August 6 11:46 PM CST

On this, the waning hours of our annual summer Texas trip - 1 part family reunion, 1 part pilgrimage, I sit by a pool turned into blackwater by a moonless night and I have an all-to-familiar, innate urge to capture this moment, to create something that will permit me to share this exact time, however poorly it may be. So, I write.

The slack key melodies from my Pandora Hawai'i station accompany the two small citronella pales that are pulling double duty as semi-effective tiki torches and less-than-semi-effective mosquito repellents, as I reflect and imagine. The pale yellow glow from the candles illuminates their corresponding areas to just about a 4-foot perimeter. From there the incomplete shadowy nighttime darkness takes over. I imagine there are tiki torches that cast a glow on pathways between island bungalows, simultaneously flickering in an ocean breeze as my own two "torches" dance in a warm and slight West Texas wind. The crackling rhythmic sounds of the jets from the sprinkler heads that dot the fairway just a few yards away have come and gone. Not quite a suitable replica of a tropical waterfall or Hawai'ian surf, but calming in its own way. And now the air is strangely silent, atypical for this Carolinian's ears. Back home, my thoughts would be struggling to gain a stronghold amidst the southern summer melodious trills and drones of the tree frogs, creek toads, and crickets.

I look skyward and notice that June Hershey's lyrics from the classic Texas tribute are again confirmed. "The stars at night are big and bright" indeed. Go ahead and clap four times - it's okay...probably required by some Texas statute, actually. There is Jupiter in all its glory, dominating the heavens with an egotistical shine that you absolutely must notice. There is also Mars with its marvelously red hue, giving Jupiter notice that another game is definitely in town for stargazers right now. A shooting star zips across the face of the vast Milky Way, which ribbons across a night sky littered with gleaming, brilliant lights. Clap-clap-clap-clap.

As the sounds of aloha surround me, I allow myself to imagine that my South Pacific double is gazing skyward as well and contemplating the same twinkling palette as I at this very moment, maybe even listening to George Strait or Lyle Lovett or Bob Wills, as though we are connecting across some cosmic pathway of brotherhood. My geographic brain tells me that this is probably inaccurate, at least in part. The sky in the islands of Hawai'i, just a few latitude lines south of here, probably look a little different. Heck, the sun may still be out there. Still, it is a nice thought. I envision Israel Kamakawiwo'ole (known as Iz to his bruddahs, of which I am sure I am one) is smiling down at me, strumming his uke, and wearing a Stetson straw cowboy hat tonight in my honor. Well, okay - maybe a palm leaf cowboy hat. But he is smiling...because it's returned to me tonight. I also imagine Willie Nelson, in a lei and aloha shirt, is plucking Trigger (his famously worn guitar) and smiling down on my counterpart. Wait...Willie isn't dead. So, I guess that visualization doesn't really work. Willie might be able to conjure a fitting version of this vision from the back of his tour bus, but I digress.

What is the "it" of which I speak, you ask?

No, it is not some alcohol-induced stammering or drivel flowing from the fingertips of some poor soul who has finally been pushed over the insanity precipice by a life of freakish busy-ness. At least, I don't think that's it. Bar tabs and/or medical records may prove otherwise one day.

No, the "it" is a credo of mine that I stole from a movie. Short version - to live in a state of constant, total amazement.

Now, that's not hard to do tonight. But, tomorrow, when I'm packing for our drive home, aka playing Tetris with my minivan and the luggage, bags, boxes, golf clubs, and various odds and ends, many of which strangely did not occupy space in our vehicle on the way out here, finding that state of constant, total amazement will not be a simple task. Neither will it be easy on our numbing drive down I20...for 17 hours. Sometimes, it's a struggle to live by a credo of such effort and rarity.

The battle against the status quo, normalcy, metaphoric sleep is real for the few. Life often likes to don us with blinders. They become comfortable and safe. We tend to anchor ourselves in the harbors of ritual, shelter, and the ordinary. Coincidentally, or maybe not, this particular credo of which I aspire to pursue was uttered on a boat at sea in the movie. Hmm...

So, for tonight, I've recaptured that state - a mindset of sorts - that delivers me. The world is good and magical and awesome, and I'm here to take part in or at least observe it. It is moments like this that I can recall when I'm on that interstate stretch between Abilene and Dallas or Atlanta and Augusta, where life no longer exists, and is subsequently sucked out of any one traveling through that area. I can recall it innumerable times when I seem buried under life's expectations or stuck on one of life's sandbars. I know that the amazing is still out there, be it in the natural world, the human existence, or the unexplained. And I am thankful that I am reminded tonight, and at other opportune moments, to pursue this state - constantly and totally.

Mahalo, y'all.

Kooky Over Heller's Book

My gypsy soul has yet again been awakened, set ablaze by a kindred spirit, calling me to break free of my quiet, veiled desperation, and to live extraordinarily. Rare is the book that so stirs the soul in such a way as this. For me, Peter Heller’s book Kook has powerfully and eloquently done just that.  

image courtesy of: http://www.peterheller.net

The narration is hilariously human and the writing is superb. The English teacher in me soon got past the (stylistically intentional) sentence fragments, and floated along on the beautifully refreshing current of language that courses throughout the book – flowing when appropriate, concise when necessary, and raw when applicable.

I was swallowed immediately by the story’s premise.

Situations and relationships convince the author to grow from “kook,” a surfers’ term for pathetic beginner - a level of proficiency many never surpass, to expert in less than a year’s span. The renowned adventure travel writer’s trek takes him from Denver to California and then southward down Mexico’s ever-changing shoreline. Friends old and new, become mentors, guiding Heller along his odyssey, introducing him to swells up and down the coast, and imparting their own brands of wisdom about surfing and life.

While some of his encounters seem beyond belief (roughhousing with a juvenile sea lion, witnessing a boulder of a man create his own wave and surf it…backwards…and on his head), Heller is real. He gets rolled, wipes out, and gloriously glides his way through an unforgettable adventure of love, self-realization, and surfing. Like me, he is both cognizant and ignorant of his own faults, awkwardly paddling through screw-ups and recoveries, to the very last page. Yet, somehow, like a tragic hero who is unaware of his tragic role, he succeeds. He wins. It’s certainly no blowout victory, but it leaves the reader with a prideful, knowing smile, and an ignited passion for knowledge, adventure, and love. And with a desire to read more of his works.

Thank you, Peter Heller, for giving me - a 49 year-old, briny-blooded kook and aspiring writer, who has a knack to wander at times - hope, a renewed spirit, and a beautiful read. And thanks to my brother, Keith, a fellow kook, who is much closer to surfing his way out of kookdom than I, for recommending and letting me borrow his copy.

Check it out here!

A Speedy Discovery

Hello to all (2 or 3) of my loyal readers. I started penning this post from an unusual location – inching eastbound down I-20 towards South Carolina, in the passenger seat of my minivan. It’s unusual because I’m usually piloting this ship, relinquishing my duties only in dire situations, like extreme exhaustion (when I braked for elephants crossing the interstate way out in West Texas at 4 A.M.), or when eating something that requires more than 2 hands (biscuits and sausage gravy with a side of hash browns – I need at least one foot for that while traveling). Why I’m over here in the navigator’s chair is the topic of this post – and it isn’t to try my hand at reading a GPS, Facebook, Texas Monthly, novel of the month, Instagram, and napping at the same time. I’m not saying my copilot does this…well, yes I am. It’s quite impressive, actually.

My wife is very talented and is more than satisfied with her right-chair position on trips. In addition, she can step in and drive for hours without missing a beat. I, on the other hand, am quite uncomfortable doing the riding and not the driving.

I’m like a starting pitcher who, although often going the distance, can only pitch as a starter. When removed from the game, I hit the showers. Can’t ride the bench. Not a team player. My wife, on the other hand, is a top-notch reliever, who can be a starter if necessary, and could play any position, for that matter. She just loves being a part of the team and wants to use her God-given talents to help out the ball club in any way.

So why, you might ask, am I riding (and writing) instead of driving?

Why indeed. Let me expound…

Fathers should lead by word and deed. This I believe. This is a central tenet of fatherhood to me. So, when I was recently awarded a speeding ticket, my tiny world imploded for a bit. I’m still recovering and it isn’t easy.

Let me explain:

I don’t break laws, at least not blatantly. While I may challenge rules that I oppose, I don’t engage in open, obvious rebellion to the statutes created to retain order and peace in our society.  Laws, for the most part, are good and necessary (except for the inane behavior modification junk that’s coming down the pipes now). Law enforcement, for the most part, is good and necessary. Law enforcers, for the most part, are good and necessary. Most judges are good and necessary. Most lawyers are…well, anyway (and I'm not referring to my sister-in-law, college roommate, and several other dear friends - you guys are wonderful).

photo: www.biography.com

I’m one of the good guys. My record is squeaky clean, and not by luck, either. It takes discipline and focus. Sure, I’ve been driving down the highway and had police vehicles zoom up behind me, lights flashing. But they always quickly speed around me to go catch the criminal somewhere up ahead. I’m Roy Rogers in a white hat, driving the trusty wagon (minivan) across the dusty trail to do good for those in distress, be it a ride home or a service call or a milkshake pick-up. I imagine the troopers nod their heads as they zip by me, silently thanking me for my service and law-abiding ways. I make their jobs easier. We’re on the same side. 

This is how I seem, or seemed, to myself, and to my children – at least in my mind. Now, that perception is tarnished. My record is blemished. There was a breakdown in that understood camaraderie between the law and me. My white hat has gotten dirty.

I’ve tried to reason through this tumultuous event – I was simply keeping up with traffic (I was); I was trying to maneuver around convoys of patience-testing trucks/busses/RVs/grandmothers that required a little extra speed (also true); I was trying to make up for the lost time due to the maddening, yet peculiarly invisible, road work that brought traffic to a crawl and occurred every 30 miles (or thereabouts). Bottom line – I exceeded the speed limit while driving on Interstate 20 through Acadia Parish, Louisiana…and got caught.

When the lights of the sheriff deputy’s SUV grabbed my attention, I initially expected to see the vehicle disappear from my rearview mirror and rev right past me in a matter of seconds – like always. When that didn’t happen, when he remained behind me – ME! – I quickly passed through numerous stages of emotion – fear, shock, disbelief, anxiety, anger – and then became numb. We both pulled over and stopped. He pulled farther to the right and at an angle. I began to do the same and realized that maybe I shouldn’t move the car at all at this point. I also realized that I didn’t know what to do. The crime scene was not my comfort zone by any stretch.

He instructed me to step out of the car. His tone seemed a little forceful. He took control of the situation with a commanding presence. What was going on? People who resist an officer are either much bolder than I or just plain crazy. His voice, his presence, was a tractor beam from which I couldn’t escape. “Yes sir” “No sir” “I understand, sir” Yes sir” “I’ll certainly do that, sir” “Thank you”. I actually thanked him for my ticket. I’m not thankful for my ticket! Had it been simply a warning, I could understand the gratitude. But, no – I thanked the officer for writing and handing me a speeding ticket. Geez – this guy was good.

Photo: en.wikipedia.org

I asked no questions. Never pleaded my case. Never even made small talk to, you know, soften him up so he’d go easy on me. Nope. Short, sweet, polite replies. That was it. Then, it was over. Was this what an NFL quarterback sack was like? Only if, after the play, the QB were to offer to help up the linebacker, pat him on the butt and thank him for playing his position so well, I guess.

I climbed back into the saddle, dusted off my hat, looked at my sidekick and muttered, “He gave me a ticket.” I could feel my kids’ stares. I envisioned their mouths agape in wordless disbelief. I knew what the thousands of movie screens across the country felt at the exact moment Han Solo was skewered by his son in the latest Star Wars blockbuster. “What!?! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!” The epitome of shock and heartbreak and disappointment all rolled into a ball - a small carbon paper ball with the words “Traffic Violation” printed across the top.

You could cut the sense of betrayal that hung in our vehicle with a tazer.

I suspected my kids felt I had betrayed their image of me as a law-abiding hero. I detected a sense of betrayal of our bank account and insurance premiums from my wife. And I felt betrayed by the good guys. I wanted to say, “Wait! I haven’t joined the dark side. I despise the dark side!”

If the deputy had just taken a few moments to get to know me, things would have worked out differently. We could have enjoyed a couple of beverages in my backyard while some burgers sizzled on my grill, talked about politics, being underpaid servants. Our kids could have played together and our wives could have laughed at us as we tried to extinguish the flames leaping from the charred meat. He would have recognized me for what I truly am – Roy Rogers, one of the white hat guys. Certainly not ticket-worthy.

Alas, he didn’t have time for that. Not even a quick question probing the reasons for my hurry. No – he had a job to do and his job was not done. There were others on that stretch of road in his county who were breaking the laws he was sworn to enforce (many of whom had passed me – just saying). I must say that the deputy was courteous, extremely professional, straightforward and a credit to his badge and profession. Later, I tried to be mad at him. After all, why did he choose me to stop and not the dozen or more cars that were traveling the same rate as I was (probably my out-of-state tags helped him make that call). But, I couldn’t sustain that anger. Our society has recently and too often vilified those who are simply enforcing the laws that someone else has established. Many times that “someone else” is the one vilifying the enforcer. In any case, ultimately I could only direct my anger in one direction – at myself.

Now, it took me a while to get to that point. I was so stunned by the events that had unfolded, I had to pull off at an exit a short distance down the road and let my wife take the helm. I pulled myself out of the game. Time for the relief pitcher. It was like I had just given up a grand slam home run and I couldn’t locate my pitches any more. I was hitting the mascot, the right fielder, the announcer way up in the press box, a couple of stadium lights. I’d lost all confidence in myself.

Thankfully, my wife nobly took over and calmly regained control of our trip. Empathetically claiming that we had all learned a good lesson, she proceeded down the interstate at the posted limits, while cars, trucks, RVs, grannies, mopeds, tractors, and hitchhikers flew by us in the left-hand lane. I wasn’t about to complain.

It gave me time to ponder what had just transpired. I concluded a few things. First, I admitted that I had become a speeder. Only on interstates. In town and on smaller highways, I was very particular in obeying the posted limits. For some reason, my careful observance of speed limits would fly out the window when I hit the open road. I would typically drive with the flow of traffic, but did not appreciate getting passed. So, I would drive on the high end of the flow. I attribute this, at least in part, to the pace my life has achieved. No longer do I have the luxury of enjoying the journey. We’re too darned busy. I have to get from point A to point B in as short a time as feasible. In my head, that gave me permission to turn interstates into Autobahns. This is sad. I want to enjoy the journey, but have become more concerned with making good time. A costly habit, I now see.

Next, the emotion that had taken over my system was embarrassment. It was like the time I, the model student, had gotten popped on the backside by my paddleball paddle-wielding teacher for being out of line on the way to lunch. I had been chosen to ride on the parade float with the Teacher of the Year, for heaven’s sake. How could I have been physically reprimanded at school?! It didn’t hurt, mind you. It wasn’t intended to hurt, I’m sure. But the embarrassment buried me for the remainder of the week. I couldn’t sleep or eat for a while. I was not a bad egg, some truant who notched his pencil with every trip to the principal’s office and proudly displayed it like a trophy. I was a good guy. Didn’t my teacher know me?

I was embarrassed that my kids had witnessed my fall from grace. I could hear them – “Okay. That does it for Dad. Nice run, but you blew it. Thankfully, we got to see the real you before it was too damaging to our psyche. Alright, Mom. Whattya got for us? Can we trust you to lead us through the remainder of our formative years, before turning us loose in this cruel and indifferent world? At least you haven’t lied to us, right?”

I had failed as a father.

I was embarrassed that, possibly, I had so recklessly decreased our tiny bank account and increased our exorbitant insurance premiums. Being the family’s accountant, I often made a big deal about our spending and saving hqbits, and about the outrageous fees and costs of our bills. A speeding ticket did not help matters at all. “Drive only as fast as you can afford,” my mother would always say, and I repeated often, proud of my clean record. I felt shame about this while in the presence of my wife – the joint owner of our accounts. At least when she bought a purse (Another one? Really?) or a pair of shoes (but you already have 5 pair of black shoes), she got some joy from her expenditures. There is no joy in Mudville – mighty Casey, the family accountant, just got a speeding ticket.

I had failed as a husband (and accountant).

Later that evening, I finally apologized to my family, explained that I was incredibly embarrassed, that it was NOT OK to break the law, and that I was not that type of person. I was grasping for some semblance of respectability. Was my fall complete? Had my honesty saved anything remaining of my position in our family?

“It’s okay, Dad. You just made a mistake,” my precious daughter assured me.

“Yeah, Dad. Why didn’t he pull over the other guys?” That’s my boy, taking up for his old man.

But what about my copilot? My navigator. My partner. My wife. She’s the wise one of the bunch, and the best of us all.

“Hey. You didn’t disappoint us.” She looked upon me with compassion, knowing what I felt better than I knew it. Geez, she’s good.

Their words gave me a spark of hope. My pitching career wasn’t over after all. I’m not perfect, and now they know that. In all honesty, I’m sure they knew that already.

So the next day, I eventually climbed back behind the wheel, stung but not destroyed. My perception of my image had taken a nasty hit, but I now had a truer sense of myself, maybe. Anyway, I was driving again, less comfortable than before, but more aware of my actions. I postponed the completion of this post to a later time off the road, and got back to the business at hand - leading the wagon on down the trail to our destination, tipping my soiled hat to the travelers we encountered on the left or right.

Postscript: Truth be told, I was eager to take the reins from my wife, who performed solidly in my absence. I couldn’t quite give up my habit of traveling with the flow, though I kept it within a respectable 5-8 mph above the limit range. Besides, I got tired of the cyclists blowing our mirrors off as they passed. Baby steps…

Now Is The Time

I was recently moved by the current movement sponsored by Glenn Beck and Mercury One, the non-profit charity organization he founded. That movement is marked by the statement Never Again Is Now. Actually, as I awaken more fully to our situation locally, nationally, globally, my conviction is continually being strengthened, the sparks of my passion are being fanned into flames, my faith is deepening, and I am developing a profound desire to act.

This statement’s purpose is to bring together individuals from all walks of life to “improve the human condition physically, emotionally and spiritually” with an immediate focus on the atrocities of Islamic extremism and our collective ignorance of the evil that is permeating our world. Beck is taking his message to churches in an attempt to revive the power of those who are faithful to a loving God, hoping to reestablish the church as an institution for active grace, prayer, hope, and love. Indeed, our places of worship need to be more than the feel-good factories, stage shows, and fashion fairs that so many have become. There has never been a more vital moment for God’s people to shield themselves with faith, arm themselves with love, and stand firm in our foundational beliefs.

Birmingham, Alabama was the pivotal city for the Civil Rights movement in the 1960’s and the reconciliation model for today. This is where Beck’s first stop will be, and not really by his own choosing. Check out the amazing story behind the decision here . It seems to me that Beck is allowing God to work through him when denying His will would be much easier.

So, I’m inspired. The time is now to be brave, to talk to those who may be of a different skin color, different religious denomination, different culture,  who may have a different perspective to find common ground in an effort to bring God’s grace, glory, and love back into our world. Check that, His world.

I believe I am still in a majority who believe in the founding principles of our country (pre-New Deal) and that we are to love our God and love our neighbors as we love ourselves. This majority, though, seems to be diminishing, slowly slogging into the quicksand pits of moral depravity, blinded by the barrage of attacks on our religion, character, and goodness. Seemingly insurmountable conditions? Yep. But Never Again is Now…

So, what do I do?

My initial thought was to contact my pastor and encourage him to use his extensive network of ministers in the midlands of South Carolina, where my family and I reside, to bring together an interfaith discussion with Glenn Beck as the keynote speaker. I am still planning on pursuing this endeavor. My church is a leader among Southern Baptists; Glenn is a Mormon. This will not be an easy task. Easier to keep my mouth shut? Absolutely. But Never Again is Now…

I was recently on St. Helena Island in South Carolina’s low country and read about Penn Center, site of the former Penn School, founded in 1862 as a school for freed slaves. According to the Center’s website, “It is one of the most significant African American historical and cultural institutions in existence today.” I urge you to read its fascinating history here and visit the physical site if you are near the area. I soon learned that it was here in the 1960’s that “Penn Center took up the mantle of social justice by ushering in the Civil Rights Movement and serving as the only location in South Carolina where interracial groups, such as Dr. Martin L. King, Jr., the Southern Christian Leadership Conference and the Peace Corps, could have safe sanctuary in an era of mandated de jure segregation.” In fact, Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. penned the words to his “I Have A Dream” speech in the Gantt Cottage on the Penn grounds.

It occurred to me that I teach the amazing rhetoric of that speech to my Public Speaking classes and the superfluous figurative language to my English classes. What we really need to learn, though, is the message. We celebrate this man, as we well should, for his bravery and his religious conviction. He stood for freedom and liberty for all people, delivering a message of civil protest to correct injustices, shining God’s light in those dark and evil places that were all too prevalent during his time. This is the pledge (Beck has tweaked it for the movement -pledge) his marchers signed upon joining the movement he championed:

The pledge of nonviolence written by Martin Luther King Jr., and signed by his marchers, 1963

1. As you prepare to march meditate on the life and teachings of Jesus
2. Remember the nonviolent movement seeks justice and reconciliation - not victory.
3. Walk and talk in the manner of love; for God is love.
4. Pray daily to be used by God that all men and women might be free.
5. Sacrifice personal wishes that all might be free.
6. Observe with friend and foes the ordinary rules of courtesy.
7. Perform regular service for others and the world.
8. Refrain from violence of fist, tongue and heart.
9. Strive to be in good spiritual and bodily health.
10. Follow the directions of the movement leaders and of the captains on demonstrations.

Print Name ______________________________

Signature _______________________________

I find this to be lost today in the chaos of our misguided society. Where is our civility? Where is our humanity? Easier to give up? Maybe. But  Never Again is Now…

And then - Charleston.

A city near and dear to my South Carolinian heart was rocked to its core last night by evil. All other motivations pale to the simple fact that this was an act of evil. Innocent lives, good lives, meaningful lives were senselessly taken - in a house of God, nonetheless. The murderer is reportedly from my town, attended a school in my school district.  This is too close to home.

All at once, my emotions were a swirl of shock, raging anger, heart-wrenching sadness, despair, guilt. And then I became fearful for the people of Charleston and our state. What would our response be? Race was obviously a motivator in this heinous crime. Maybe anarchy. Maybe religion. We don’t know yet. Most importantly, though, is the obvious and ominous presence of evil.

So often, the immediate aftermath of horrific events like this consists of mindless chaos, riots, destruction, and more murders – an evil response to evil. Please, no. Not here. Not in my backyard.

I prayed, “ Please, God, feel us with your grace, let us feel your presence, give us the strength to reconcile nonviolently though your love.”

Race baiters, politically-motivated activists, and other divisive individuals began to weigh in and even populate the area. Politicians, including our President, and others began using this heart-breaking event as an agenda-promoting opportunity. Let hopelessness reign? It would be easy to slip into that trap. Allow misinformation to flow freely without challenge? Subdue my immediate desire to help, to make a difference, and give way to inaction? Become wrapped up in my tiny world and worry only about me and my own? It is enticing. But Never Again is Now…

I can’t be in Charleston tomorrow. My schedule will not allow it. Not physically, anyway. But my heart is there. I see the immediate response of Charleston’s residents on the news reports and am so unbelievably impressed and moved. They are hurt, but they are healing through prayer. They are angered, but they are reconciling through God’s grace. They are shocked, but they are unified through their faith. They will be in church on Sunday with a renewed spirit of love and peace. They will…we will grow from this. This is a moment of significance. I hope our strength and resilience and faith and love will prevail. I feel…I know we can show the world how civility and courtesy trumps violence.

“Heavenly Father, grant us the strength to carry on, the grace to love our neighbors, the peace that only you can provide through your Holy Spirit, and the wisdom to take this tragedy and make it an opportunity to shine your light in a moment of darkness. You are good. You will reign over evil. Purify our hearts and clarify our minds. We love you. Help us demonstrate this love from this day forward. Amen.”

Never Again is Now…

I don’t know where my road leads, but I know I’m being led down this road by a power that is much bigger than my own. I hope I have the courage to follow it. 

Will you join me? 

This might be a good place to start:

 http://now.mercuryone.org/

http://www.glennbeck.com/content/articles/article/198/39452/

A Brief Journey of Legendary Proportions

Friday, January 30, 2015 was a day made for legends.

On Christmas morning, a little over a month ago, I was surprised with a gift from my wife. We had agreed not to exchange gifts due to our budgetary bind, but she said she just couldn’t resist. Furthermore, she mentioned my two brothers were getting the same present. Baffled but excited I opened the envelope she had handed me and unfolded a printout of a ticket to see Lyle Lovett and Vince Gill in North Charleston on January 30.

Instant entry into the “Best Christmas Gifts Ever” file.

My brothers also made a deposit into their files that morning.

As the weeks pass, we make the necessary arrangements to free ourselves of our typical Friday affairs and decide to meet at the home of my parents, centrally located between our three homes and in close proximity to I-26, the path to follow from West Columbia to our destination in North Charleston.

Eventually, that highly-anticipated morning comes and, after dropping the kids off at their respective schools, I arrive at our meeting point to discover that my brothers would be delayed in their arrival by an hour or so. So my father and I slip out for some breakfast at his favorite Waffle House a couple of miles down the road.

As I peer through the steam swirling up from the cream-thickened coffee in his pudgy porcelain mug, I look at my father’s aging face and listen to his reflections on friends, family, life and it occurs to me that this is one of those moments to cherish. Some stories I’ve heard before, assuring their places in family lore. Others are new to me, and I can tell that Pop enjoys telling them, imparting the wisdom only a dad can impart. While he proudly divulges information about new acquaintances, many of the characters are the same – his coffee drinking buddies from Zesto’s restaurant, some old clients from his insurance days, distant relatives, the motley crew of friends he had growing up in the coal-mining little town of Richlands, Virginia, and, of course, the immediate family – all enjoying legendary status in our tight circle.

I develop an overwhelming sense that this rare breakfast date with Pop may well be the beginning of an entire day of memorable moments, brimming with legendary tales of our lives and the lives of our heroes.

My sense would prove true.

Soon, my brothers and I set out on our two-hour trek to Charleston and all it has to offer three 40-something brothers desperate for some bonding time together and a brief respite from familial and career responsibilities. Our evolving itinerary includes a good movie, good food, good beer, and a good show. All of the particulars are hammered out along the way, plugged in at appropriate intervals amidst the ongoing conversations on subjects brothers discuss – some words of anticipation of the future near and distant, but mostly reflections on life and the legends created along the way.

After a satisfying lunch that included a delicious jaunt into dishes previously untried, we traverse the iconic Ravenel Bridge that connects the barrier island of Mount Pleasant to the historical port city of Charleston, and propose a possible bridge run in March. This quickly leads to a discussion on the various successes and failures of our numerous exercise regimens and the sorry side effects of aging. We come to no conclusions as our sights quickly refocus on the next component of our journey – the cinema.

Our timing sets us up perfectly for the next showing of American Sniper. We enter with chatter-filled anticipation and exit two hours and twelve minutes later in silent admiration. Throughout the film, as Chris Kyle’s character must focus on his responsibilities and balance between his oath to his country and his vow to his wife and family, I can’t help but reflect on my own choices in priority.

I think back to the night before, after my daughter’s middle school basketball game, when she was distraught after what she concluded was a poor performance on her part. She turned to me for consolation. I guess I’ve somehow earned that. Her quiet sobs into my sleeve revealed volumes and I was grateful to be there. I’m grateful that she wanted me to feel her feelings, to console her and to help her move forward.

Then, I recall my feelings as I dropped off my son at school just that morning and watched him stroll down the sidewalk, the same sidewalk that he and I typically share every day. On one front, I’m the teacher and he’s the student – we’re both going to our jobs. On the other, he’s my son and I’m his dad – together we’re taking on new experiences and growing intellectually, emotionally, together and apart. I feel anxious but hopeful, lonely but proud, and inadequate but blessed when I watch him head into the fray without me. I wonder if I’ve prepared him for his lone journeys. I wonder if he’ll cherish breakfasts with me one day.

I wonder if I’m holding up my end of the vow to my family. Am I living up to my responsibility as a father and husband?

While watching Bradley Cooper convincingly play his role in the movie, I find myself wanting to be a part of something grand, meaningful, noble. I want to make a difference. I know what I do now seems to fit that mold, but I search for something greater. As we slowly and solemnly file out of the theatre in an awkward but reverent silence, we know we’ve been changed in some way, at least for a while.

Then my brother Lew, sandwiched in age between Keith, the youngest, and me, the eldest, abruptly shatters the thick somber atmosphere with, “Well, that was pleasant.”

Chuckles ensue and we hit the play button on our briefly paused day-long banter. The medley flows somehow seamlessly from favorite movies to favorite restaurants to honey-do lists to college days to politics to sports to sleep walking and eventually to a discussion on our next stop, a brief layover en route to our ultimate destination that night.

We choose a happy hour spot, where we learn about the Italian digestivo Fernet-Branca and sample its effectiveness – not caring if it’s actual or contrived. More importantly, our reflections and observations pour smoothly from car to street to tavern. Placing an order is not an interruption, but rather an opportunity to interlace yet another perspective on yet another subject. We reflect on the film, asking the rhetorical questions and speculating on the answers, comparing the cinematic offering to the written account. We contemplate the legends of the world and marvel at the legends in our lives. Then, we move on.

We eventually make our way to the last stopover near the end of the line, where we sample tacos and savor our fellowship, knowing it is drawing to a close. Our hope for a brighter future intensifies as we share dreams and make dreamers’ plans. Our humor switches in style like vehicles at a busy intersection – sophomoric pulls out first, then British takes its turn, followed by an anecdote, which suddenly yields to juvenile. The reactions are hearty and unceasing. We celebrate our camaraderie, but, eventually, our anticipation of the upcoming concert takes control as show time approaches.

After a quick perusal of snippets of our favorite Lovett and Gill tunes, we vacate the minivan and file into the North Charleston Performing Arts Center. We quickly realize that we are in the minority age group of attendees, a good 20 years their juniors. Or, maybe that’s our misjudged perspective and we actually fit into this category and do not realize it. Still, we feel younger, more hip, more in-tune to what “good music” really is. As amateur guitarists (and I take lots of liberties with that description) and expert musicologists (in our own minds), we are there for more than a couple of hit songs. We want to bask in the glow of expert musicianship, marvel at the masterful mix of melody and legendary storytelling, and be inspired by the sheer coolness of the event.

We are not disappointed.

In fact, the show is better than we had imagined…and we had imagined, as we often do, the extraordinary.

As the lights come up, highlighting a small area center stage, we see two chairs, a couple of guitar stands, two microphones, and…that’s all. Lyle Lovett and Vince Gill unassumingly stroll out to an anticipatory and appreciative applause and take their respective seats. I soon realize that this will be the show. No bands, no set up and tear down, no breaks…and no chance of disappointment. The legendary performers take turns sharing songs and swapping stories. We laugh at the tales of dysfunctional families, noting the similarities to our own, chuckle at the accounts of mishaps and poor decisions, wonder at the reflections of the many collaborations with those of otherworldly talent, smile at the revelations of earnest feelings, and truly enjoy the glimpses into the lives and minds of these two gentlemen. A moment of note occurs when Lovett makes a connection to our soldiers and I find an easy connection to Chris Kyle’s story from earlier in the day as the audience responds with a thunderous applause. The two singer-songwriters are long-time amazing performers, but they convince us through their modest natures that they are not performing at all. Rather, they have allowed us a peek into the back room of an old filling station where two guys, each with his guitar and a cold beer, share pieces of their lives through anecdotes and lyrics, laughing and affirming that they are doing what God had placed them on this planet to do. Life is indeed good at this moment.

Sadly, the experience all-too-quickly comes to an end. I want to run on stage and grab Lyle and shake his hand and give Vince a big brotherly hug, and let them know that what they just did was truly wonderful, that I want to go along with them, wherever they are going, and keep the experience alive forever. Theirs is such a different life, it seems. I want to be a part of it for a longer stretch than two and a half hours. But, alas, common sense qualms this fantasy that security would have prevented anyway. So, I file out with the old greys, wondering if they have a decent appreciation of what was just given to them. I know my brothers feel as I do and their immediate comments confirm it.

Once again, our commentary ensues - a reflection of the day, filled with awe, praise, laughter, and gratitude - and continues until we finally depart from one another, going our own separate ways.

I realize that while my initial deduction that the lives of the two superstar musicians and the military hero are different from my own may indeed be true, we still all share the commonalities of our own existences. We reflect on our own legends and situations and they may only differ in names and locales. The underlying feelings and the resulting lessons aren’t all that diverse. That allows me to be able to connect to Chris Kyle, Lyle Lovett, and Vince Gill, as well as my brothers and dad. And on a legendary day, where I watched a legendary story and witnessed legendary performers, I discover that the legends we experience and the legends that we create help make life enjoyable and meaningful and livable.

I have a feeling that my wife knew that her Christmas present to me was more than just a ticket to a show. A legendary gift of a legendary journey from a legendary love.