First Aid by Ear

“What first aid treatment in shock is administered by ear?”

I read these words in Cutting for Stone, expressing Abraham Verghese's lingering question that echoes long after I read it.

The answer is one every first responder needs to know: words of comfort.

Words of comfort speak directly into the heart and soul as first aid for the weary. Words of comfort--like friends who show up with good food-- are welcome anywhere. While reassuring words may not change our circumstances, they remain an audible reminder that we are not alone.

New parents are advised to soothe their newborns with a shushing sound directly into the ear. Whispering with gentle cooing has a role, but not for this practice. No, “Hush, Chile” from the old days will suffice here.  The modern shushing technique must be loud enough to transmit the rushing wind sound over the baby's distress to induce calm and security. It works.

It all goes back to what we know first: That primal, pulsing, whooshing that surrounded the baby before birth continues to bring comfort when applied to soothe.

Hmmm, rushing wind. Pulsing breaths. Something sounds familiar.

The ancient Hebrew word for both spirit and breath is Ruah. "Breathe on me breath of God"..... Y-H-W-H. The sound of many waters. Images flood my mind as I give it line and let it run free.

We encounter God in various ways. I have experienced God's greatest revelation in Jesus Christ, and also I remember God is said to speak in the sound of thunder (Psalm 18 and Psalm 29) and in the sound of rushing waters (Ezekiel 43:2 and Revelation 1:9-19). Some may dismiss the value of these references as simple poetic devices in ancient literature, but I am on the side of the psalmist and prophets: they offer a picture of God's speaking words of comfort administered by ear into the heart of a distressed child.



The holy hush.

God whispers above the cacophony of the world, above the tumult within, to calm and soothe and to remind us that we are always—always – God’s beloved.

Sometimes we may experience a gentle but firm shushing in a new way that gets our attention. We may have occasion to sense a whisper of sorts loudly enough to be felt and heard over the tumult where we live.

When we, like the fretful, inconsolable infant, most need reassurance and redirection, we may experience a fresh resonant Presence that surrounds us even in the midst of our ordinary lives. This caress of the Spirit that never leaves us nor forsakes us reminds me that I never doubted Jesus for a moment, only myself.

We will all have fretful days and fitful nights.

Life casts us into seas of turmoil that challenge our notions about safe harbors and security. Our brushes with crises, whether health, family or financial; marital breakdown; heartache and loss of many kinds all threaten to overtake us and drag us in the undertow. Even when we know to expect such difficulties as a part of life, they can take us by storm and by surprise when they make landfall at our doorstep.

 But it came to me clearly upon waking in the wee hours one morning, this holy hush.

And it came among the promises of the Lord to attend to us even in the night.

“When I remember You on my bed, I meditate on You in the night watch because You have been my help; therefore in the shadow of Your wings, I will rejoice.” (Psalm 63:6, 7)

“The Lord God has given me the tongue of one who has been taught, that I may know how to sustain with a word the one who is weary. Morning by morning He awakens my ear to hear as the student, as one who is taught.” (Isaiah 50:4)

“…How to sustain with a word the one who is weary.” There it is again: words of comfort.  First aid by ear. 

Each of us is a first responder in someone’s life. We need to know where to turn in times of crisis ourselves and how to initiate first aid for others. To give a warm embrace accompanied by caring words requires no special training or certification. The effect, much like swaddling a newborn to keep arms from flailing in distress, will begin to soothe a frantic soul. 

"The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God stands forever" (Isaiah 40:8).

“He strengthens the weary and increases the power of the weak. He renews the strength of those who hope in Him” (Isaiah 40:29-31).

Darrell Creswell's image used with permission.

Salute In Memoriam

A common fear among those who have lost loved ones is that others will forget them. Upon request I offer a tribute that aired on public radio ten years ago this week of one who deserves to be remembered.

Aaron Holleyman was born in Rankin County, grew up in Clinton and had family ties to Monticello and Carthage. I knew him as Glenda Carpenter’s son. Good people, his family: the best among our Mississippi towns. 

Holleyman was 26, assigned to the 1st Battalion, 5th Special Forces Group, Fort Campbell, Kentucky, when on August 30, 2004 his last-in-line military vehicle hit an improvised explosive device in Khutayiah, Iraq. He had been injured on a previous tour and did not have to return, but chose to do so despite his hearing loss, at the time of his death. 

There is always a back story—everybody’s somebody’s baby—for each of our casualties of war. And our task, as I see it, is to remember.

---

American flags like sentries line the iron fence leading into the Monticello cemetery. Crisp standards whip in the faint breeze beating back the Mississippi afternoon heat, unaware that they set more than the stage, they set the tempo. They define the moment.

Cars crawl into line along the gravel shoulder as friends from long ago emerge and cluster a respectable distance from the tent, giving warm hugs and fleshy handshakes, waiting for over an hour in the sun to pay respects. The family arrives in the company of Special Forces officers. The human wave undulates to allow them passage to the green turf-covered chairs in the shade.

Once the playing field in this small town was striped with white, and crowds cheered, and sweaty teams fought to the finish to see who would win. Now we know that was child’s play. Another playing field has claimed a friend’s child, and today we honor them.

Not a number anymore. 

Not a statistic on the nightly news.

Staff Sgt. Aaron Holleyman has a name. Now he has a resting place.

Special Forces:  The 82^nd Airborne. Fifth Special Forces Training group. Even the uninitiated among us knows they have something we don’t: They’ve been tested and proven worthy. They serve their country. And they bury their dead.

Soldiers snap to attention. 

The triangle of blue and white is pressed into the hands of his mother, our friend and high school classmate. Collective tears fall onto the dust at the sight of them – proud, aching, faithful—all at the same time. The young fatherless child leaves her daises atop the casket. The bagpiper compresses humid air into strains of “Amazing Grace,” then seamlessly moves into “The Green Beret.” 

            “Silver wings upon their chest.

            These are men, America’s best…”

More tears and silence.

A sharp command, the only human sound before the crack of seven rifles firing as one, fails to dislodge the lump in my throat. And they fire again…and again. It’s too much, and a community cries the tears of a grateful nation, for this is our hometown hero now.

His family will not mind our tears, for they celebrate his life and his faith. They hold no grudges, harbor no malice, and offer only words of gratitude and pride for his service. 

And right beside them strides his brother, Daniel, wearing the same uniform, marching in the same brave footsteps as soldiers before.

America’s best indeed.

_____________________________________________________________________________

It’s been ten years since I tapped out these words because I couldn’t not do so. My feeble effort at verbal tribute was the only way I could process the emotionally draining military burial and compassionate response of the local folks who showed up to say goodbye to a shared son and grandson.

We’re all extended family in Mississippi. 

Aaron is one of many we lost too young. Each man and woman deserves to be remembered so that their sacrifice will not be in vain. A preoccupied, forgetful nation may pay a steep price for neglecting history and memory.

A Long Way from Tupelo

 

We celebrate July 4 with fireworks every year, but July 5 marks an anniversary offering the world its own serving of sizzle. The act of remembering helps us open our minds to forgotten or little known facts that just might bring a smile during these dog days of summer.

60 years ago on July 5, 1954, Sam Phillips made music history when Elvis Presley laid down the track to “That’s All Right (Mama)”. Unrehearsed, the grainy recording captured the distinct sound that caught Phillips’s ear during a break when Elvis picked up a guitar and sang an up-tempo version of a blues song. Sam Phillips knew he had a rare item on his hands: a white singer who could sing black rhythm and blues. The Voice would call it a slam dunk four-chair turn today.

Phillips even commissioned a new logo for his Sun studio: the crowing rooster and rising sun on his record label would be a visual wake-up call signaling this seismic shift on the music landscape. There would be a whole lotta shakin’ goin’ on. 

In our day of auto-tuned voices and computer generated recording artist clones, it is hard to imagine the simplicity of those early days. 

While driving through Memphis, I tuned in an Elvis channel and lengthy interview with Rock and Roll Hall of Famer James Burton, Elvis’s guitarist from 1969-1977. Burton said Elvis had impeccable rhythm and “near-perfect pitch.”

“He set the tempo himself, and it was always perfect. You could set a computer by him; he was never off.”  He said that Elvis always launched into a song in a live performance in the original key in which he recorded it; he always knew.

“We never did the same show twice,” Burton recalled. He played twice-nightly shows in Las Vegas from 1969-1976—that was 837 sold out shows--and never repeated a performance. With a repertoire of 500-600 songs, Elvis knew the words to everything he sang. 

Elvis played piano and guitar by ear but did not read music. He never told his musicians what to play or how, Burton said, but they knew to “watch him like a hawk” and stay with him for he was likely to change something as he felt the music. He was known to move into another song as the spirit moved him, repeat a portion or build to the big finish which he favored in the 70s. Elvis surrounded himself with musicians who were good enough to handle anything the job required.  He could sing any genre, but he never left his gospel roots, his longtime friend said.

Singer Cissy Houston, one of the Sweet Inspirations backup singers, said Elvis frequently turned to gospel standards she knew while relaxing between shows in Vegas in 1969.  She was choirmaster of New Hope Baptist Church in Newark, NJ. (I learned she has been directing their youth choir for 50 years now and still sings with them. Impressive commitment!) Cissy's own  musical pedigree spanned a few decades as mother of the late Whitney Houston, aunt of Dionne Warwick and cousin of Mississippi-born opera singer Leontyne Price. Cissy and the Sweet Inspirations backed up an impressive line up in her day.  They also can be heard on Van Morrison's "Brown-Eyed Girl" and Pontotoc's own Jim Weatherly's original "Midnight Train to Georgia."

When recording in the studio, Elvis had an aversion to laying down multiple tracks as they do today. He wanted everyone in the studio standing very close together, singing and playing at the same time. He wanted the recording finished when they left the studio. They frequently recorded all night long but were finished by dawn.

His was a rare ability to sing gospel, rockabilly, rhythm and blues, ballads, rock and roll and pop, in spite of the warning issued years before when he wanted to be a gospel singer that there was no future for him as a vocalist. 

What a reminder not to believe everyone who would tell us to abandon a dream.

20 years ago a woman brought a file of photos to Graceland and cornered a local radio disk jockey, George Klein, to promote her son.  “He’s the youngest Elvis impersonator and he sings just like Elvis,” she urged. 

“He does bear a resemblance to Elvis, Mrs. Hernandez, but there’s just not a market for children Elvis impersonators,” Klein replied then.

Last month that little guy circled back around to Graceland while performing in Memphis as part of his own international tour. He is now known as Bruno Mars, a multiplatinum Grammy winner who was profoundly shaped by Elvis.

The power of influence never stops.

37  years ago while living with some students in the Aphrodite Hotel—I know, unfortunate name choice—for school in Athens, Greece, I stepped out of the elevator into the small lobby one August day. The desk clerk announced is his clearest English, “Your king is dead.”

Did he mean our president has been shot? I wondered.

“Your king is dead,” he said again gravely handing me a newspaper with the headline of Elvis’s death, a shot heard ‘round the world, so to speak.

The pilgrimages to Graceland would swell generating worldwide interest in the man and his music. Graceland recently hosted a private tour for The Duke of Cambridge, Prince Harry and their entourage causing mild tremors in Memphis: The future king treading the same soil as the king of rock and roll. 

Yes, the rising sun still shines on Union Avenue.  

As George Klein says, “The sun never sets on a legend.”  

Interestingly, the only category in which Elvis won a Grammy was in Gospel music which he won in 1968, 1973 and 1975. "How Great Thou Art" was certified 3x Platinum in 2010. If Gladys Presley had any idea that her son was remembered for some level of success linked with the gospel music he first sang in that little row house in Tupelo, I'll bet she would have been pleased.

 

Flashbacks and Tail Fins

 Ahhhh, the 1960s....a decade in contrasts. Lines of sleek modernity marked the period as much as animated accessories worn by both people and automobiles. Easter Sunday frocks with layers of crinoline and what we called 'net' swish under hats and gloves in front of Plymouth's finest fins.


 On this first day of summer 2014 I'm thinking back a few years to the school days of our youth as I share the following thoughts:

See.....look.....go.

Such simple verbs, but they set the stage offering fundamentals to tackle a world of problems. Commencement speakers annually take the stand this time of year and fill the air with advice to graduates about looking forward and looking back: We distil life's essence and dispense it in measured doses at graduation. 

 Looking back, what early impressions linger from our school days? 

As first graders in 1961, our generation perched at the apex of the language peak shaped by Dick, Jane and Sally. We Look and See and We Come and Go: these basic readers paved the way for us.

 80% of first graders who were learning to read were reading Fun with Dick and Jane. We knew Spot, Puff, Tim, Mother, Father, even Zeke the gardener. But all things must change, and the series suffered a precipitous decline in sales in the late 1960s. Having insufficient defense to charges of representing middle class, white America, Dick, Jane and Sally were g-o-n-e. 

We come and go alright; Dick and Jane were casualties of a cultural war.

After falling out of favor for content and caught in the cross-fire of cultural hostility through the 60s and 70s, there was a surge in popularity of the little books that taught Americans to read since the 1930s. Dick and Jane were hot again in the late 1990s, but only as memorabilia. They were mere artifacts of a bygone era, devalued to souvenir status.

 Leaving the debate of language instruction methods to reading specialists, most of us can still remember two things after all these years: the name of our first grade teacher and Dick, Jane and Sally.  

Some relationships matter. 

No one likely remembers who won the chemistry award or class favorite. But that teacher—dare I say a woman—who greeted the class each day of first grade in sensible shoes and who walked with purpose in every step, we remember her. She held sway over our class of 30 six year olds with not one assistant in sight. And she did it handily.

Elementary school pictures back then showed girls in dresses, boys in pants, and blackboards or green chalk boards on the wall topped by illustrated alphabet handwriting posters. Dusting erasers was a necessary task for the chosen few who got to beat the chalk dust out of those felt pads against a brick wall.

Back then kids played on the now-banned merry go ’round and lived to tell about it. Recess meant playing jump rope, dodge ball and hopscotch not texting and sending photos via iphone. The Princess phone had not even been invented yet, so forgive me for not understanding why first graders need a cell phone today. 

Pantsuits—but neither pants nor jeans—became an option about 1971 for many across the state.  Yes, polyester was rising to its zenith, but fashion was only the tip of the iceberg.

Students in the late 60s in Mississippi saw changes in school desegregation and social structures leading to sweeping curriculum revision—every action creating an equal and opposite reaction. This pressure on all sides combined to cause the ultimate demise of the little books that taught us how to read. The verdict: Too white, too suburban, too post-war America, “See Spot run,” had run its course. 

Life is a lot like maps: it all depends upon where you draw the lines. And somebody is always drawing the lines. For this reason, we need to apply our hearts unto wisdom. My first grade teacher was among those who taught us that—back when you still could, that is.

She also taught us to recite each morning the 23rd Psalm and the 100th Psalm along with the Pledge. Repetition is not the highest form of learning, but there is something about impressing words upon a heart that offers a wellspring of consolation when drawing from it later. Mrs. Howard was not merely teaching us to read, she saw her job as teaching young people how to live in a world that would change more rapidly than the one she had already experienced.

The day will surely come when others will declare our methods faulty and our materials flawed.

Some future generation may dismiss us as irrelevant on account of age alone. 

Our lives, if they are to matter, must represent more than a relic of by-gone days, more than shiny chrome bumpers and tail fins. As we pass along insights to those who come behind us packed into the little verbs that first taught us go, look and see, may we leave in our wake a legacy of loving relationships and faithful commitment in our pursuits. 

"Be careful, then, how you live—not as unwise but as wise—making the most of every opportunity..."

 Ephesians 5:15,16

Happy Mother's Day and Happy 81st Birthday, Daddy

One generation commends your works to another; they tell of your mighty acts. Psalm 145:4

I am thankful today for two parents who began a long road together in December 1952. Armed with all the energy and innocence of youth, fueled by love and unflagging determination to a shared purpose, fortified by their families who stood behind and beside them cheering on these two barely-20 year olds, they charted a course together. 

And then there were three....then four....five, six, seven and so on, each one coming in due time until there were nine of us piled in that Ford van or that Mercury wagon. Now we do not fit in any vehicle. Numbering 37 strong, we await the arrival of three more this month to swaddle the same way she taught us how many years ago. 

One generation teaches the ways of wisdom to the next, and if we are wise, we take it to heart. 

They say it started over  mom's homemade white cake with white icing and a first date to First Baptist Church of Hattiesburg's revival. It only takes a spark to ignite a fire, but much more is needed to sustain and manage the blaze over the long haul. The time will come when each of us is road-tested and battle weary. When we run out of steam. When it's not fun anymore. What do we do then?

There's got to be more than cake and preachin' to see us through.

I look upon the example of dear friends and family God has allowed in my path whose faithfulness is marked by forgiveness in good measure, grace to give space when needed, courage to face an uncertain future, perseverance when we see more road blocks than road ahead, and love whose limit has yet to be found.

Someone asked me 30 years ago, "How can your parents divide their love by all those children? I know how much I love my children, and I could never divide it up that way." 

I found the question odd, but answered it the only way I could. "They don't divide."

"They don't divide. It's not a pie where there is a fixed amount of love and each one gets a smaller share. Love multiplies."

Love grows when shared. Love--with all it attendant joys and heartaches--expands. That's the nature of love; We simply cannot contain it or limit it if we tried. Knowledge will fail us. Understanding will fall short. We need something beyond our math operations and management skills to help us navigate this life. I find that being rooted and grounded in love is essential.

 For this reason I kneel before the Father, from whom every family in heaven and on earth derives its name. I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love,  may have power, together with all the Lord’s people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ,  and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God. Ephesians 3:14-19

Thank you for hanging in there with all of this crazy bunch all these years. We love you dearly!

The living, the living--they praise you, as I am doing today; parents tell their children about your faithfulness. Isaiah 38:19

Lest We Forget

"How do you predict the future?"

This question from my teacher in the 11th grade was our only homework on the first day of class: "Tell me how to predict the future."

"He's crazy," we said. "You can't predict the future. What a ridiculous assignment," we muttered with all the smugness of 16 year-olds. 

"You can predict the future, and I want you to tell me how tomorrow."

Turns out, Pete Aycock was right.

He was teaching a unit required for juniors in high school in Mississippi: Respect for the Flag.  My hunch is that they don't teach it anymore. When we arrived empty-handed in class the next morning, he revealed the answer to our conundrum: By studying the past. 

That's it? Was he kidding, I remember thinking.

But now it comes back from time to time. Like today with the Russian saber-rattling in the Ukraine and troops moving into Poland. Like Easter Sunday when reports leaked out about Jews who had leaflets thrust into their hands while leaving Passover services, leaflets telling them they had to register their whereabouts and their property with the government. 

And the beat goes on.

"If we don't learn from the past, we are doomed to repeat it." Haven't we heard that somewhere before?
Memory allows us to create from the past a sense of meaning which we bring into the present.

A visit to the World War II Museum last week was timely for me. I got a lump in my throat upon entering and standing upon the train platform surrounded by 1940s memorabilia. The lump never went away. There were visitors in uniform, others touring in VFW hats and wheelchairs, volunteers warmly greeting all who entered.  The only thing that surprised me there was the large number of really young people who came to see what all of the fuss was about. I am thankful for them--and for us--for those not yet born in 1944 who continue to hear the story and want to understand the seminal event of the last century that changed the world as we know it. Bold statement, yes, but it is not original with me. 

Failure to study this part of our past may lead the young to believe that drive-through burgers, cell phones, Snapchat, and facebook are really important things. Grand themes of liberty, service and sacrifice don't have skin on them...yet. We don't know what we have until we've lost it comes to mind.

For generations never deprived of religious liberty, for example, it's easy to turn up our noses at religion in general. And they have--we have--as a nation. Our protection of religious freedom among essential individual liberties is changing downgrading it into a tepid side dish on the American buffet.

But on the heels of that WWII Museum visit, I witnessed a flagpole on the beach. Written beneath it in the sand was VFW 4139. "What's VFW?" the 24 year- old beside me asked. Mental note: they don't teach that anymore.

It took me back. I had limited personal contact with the VFW. As a young teen in the late 60s and early 70s I answered the call from Mattie Lou Jolly to sell poppies for the VFW. My friends including Mattie Lou's niece and I collected money for veterans and pinned a red crepe paper poppy onto the lapel of the always-generous donors in Monticello. But a younger generation may have no contact with the VFW and would not know what a veteran of foreign wars is if they don't study the past. A younger generation also did not have Mrs. Isaac Newton for English who had her students learn "In Flanders Field where the poppies grow beneath the crosses, row on row...". Who knows: maybe the Gettysburg Address and the Preamble to the U.S. Constitution have all gone the way of the Pledge to the Flag--mere relics of history no one says anymore? 

I understand the need to equip a populace for a changing world in 2014. Some things must fall by the wayside to make room for each new generation's desire for change and freedom from the old ways. But calling it change and freedom does not make it so; someone must pay a price. Always.

Memory gives a perspective which informs our decision-making that comes only from history and experience.

With each passing day our nation's leaders are distancing themselves from WWII and its hard-fought lessons. Presently our commander-in-chief and the vice president have no military experience, and fewer than 20% of congressional members are veterans. Military experience was once practically a requirement for election. When fewer than 7% of Americans are veterans now, it changes the shape of things to be sure.

The drumbeats of war and the sights of planes invading airspace continue this week in 2014. Had we only bought a little time with all that bloodshed in WWII? Or must we learn our own lessons--one generation at a time--and repeat the same mistakes to our detriment?

It's an old story, this human condition and the rise and fall of civilizations. But we must keep telling it. 

The way to predict the future is by studying the past. And some things, I suppose, never change.