Our bases were loaded

I have an idea floating around inside of my head, it's been part of the old goldfish bowl mounted on my shoulders for several years now as a vague, unspecific threat, but now it has a name and face.

I desperately want to start a women's magazine that would encourage and inspire women, instead of showing them what they'll never look like, no matter how many toes or ribs they have removed... instead of giving them the most devilish chocolate cake recipe and then telling them how they can lose the 10 pounds they just gained from looking at the photo of the danged thing.

Now I'm putting down some story ideas... categories... need some columns, but am really excited by what's turning up so far. One is a story about Title IX. I want to delve into the delectable story about two women in congress who pushed through some legislation that made it possible for me and countless other young girls to play softball back in 1972 as an organized sport for the first time. An actual little league.

Dang, we were good! Undefeated except for one practice game, to the opposing team's delight. We shrugged it off. Three years of winning every game we ever played did a lot to instill confidence and teamwork in the hearts of about a dozen little girls. What other experience could have replaced that one?

Both of these women are dead. What a shame. I'd love to send them a hug through the phone or e-mail, and talk to them personally. The investigative journalist in me can't wait to explore all the interesting facts and stories behind this one!

Most of all, I wish I could tell them what a friend who was a boy (but I wished it had been more) said when he came to one of my games: "Not bad for a bunch of girls." Or, what my response was: "And we don't even need a tee like you boys do to hit the ball... we use a pitcher!!!"

Richly treasured

I wrote awhile ago that I'd write more about Rich Mullins later. But I'm not feeling too inspired this morning. Rich had the gift for inspiration. He'd get that funny raspy sound in his voice that made you lean closer when he was about to say something so profound and thick with meaning that you could pick it up with a fork...

He seemed ahead of his time, but I'm not sure that time would have ever been ready for him. Much has been written about Rich by people who knew him a whole lot better than I did. But pretty much anyone who encountered Rich walked away with a memorable story. This is mine.

Right after I graduated from KU in 1989, we moved to Wichita. I wanted to be closer to my family, especially if I was going to start my own. I still believe this was a great decision, although it may have stunted me a little professionally. My sister hooked us up with a landlord who was an elder at her church, and rented property owned by the St. Joseph Convent or Hospital. We landed at 3719 E. Zimmerly. We didn't have much, so everything but our books fit nicely. I loved it most because it was secluded and had a fireplace...

My first son, Gannon, was born here. Well, actually it happened at Wesley Hospital, but it was the little house on Zimmerly where we brought him home to.. where we retreated to the basement with an outside door those late afternoons in spring when the tornado sirens wailed... and it was often that I had supper on the stove and had to turn it off in the middle of cooking that year. 2000. McConnell got hit. Hesston got hit. Not a good year to be pregnant or have a newborn.

Anyhow, I didn't know much about Rich, other than he was this singer who went to church with my sister at Central Christian. She'd given me a tape of another singer from her church, so it didn't seem to be anything unusual or largely significant.

Rich and Beaker, his roommate and co-musician, lived in this little white rental house and paid their rent to the same landlord we did... they drove old pickups with the big round fenders and played outside in the front yard with their big dogs. They'd be gone for months at a time...

Behind us lived Doris Howard, wife of Maurice, a preacher that Rich had followed to Wichita from Indiana, who pastored at Central before his sudden death. I came to know and love Doris and especially her daughter, Sherri McCready. God spoke to me in a magnanimous way through the hours I spent copyediting Sherri's books, which told about her deep, thick encounters with God. How she trusted God to bring her teen ministry transportation, so naively, so trusting that she sat on the curb and waited for it to come. It did.

Then my sister divorced, and moved from one little house south of our brother's to the back of one just south of us, right across the street from Doris. If you can picture a square, we were at the top of it, or the north... Cheryl and Doris were on the street south of us, or at the bottom of the square... Rich and Beaker were on the street west, or on the left side of the square.

If the left side of the square extended farther up than the top of the square, that was where Rich's manager and fellow singers/musicians Nicki and Lee Lundgren lived. They were part of the original Ragamuffin Band. I fed their cats while they were off touring or on vacation one time. I was in Rich and Beaker's house once, while Cheryl went over to check the mail or something. She cleaned house for them from time to time.

I almost forgot to mention. Just east of us, on the top of the square, was Rich's friend from college in Cinncinatti, Kathy Sprinkle, but everything just knew her as Sprinkle. She was one of the first DJs for Lite 99 radio station. I sat on the front porch a lot and watched Rich walk back and forth from his house to Sprinkles. We never talked much, never acknowledged each other much...

Later, when we moved to the west side of town, I grew to appreciate Rich's music with much more understanding and spiritual passion. It filled something inside of me, gave words to my anguish and longing and joy and exasperation I felt toward God. I got into Christian music, and noticed there was something different about Rich's creations. So different. So unpop. So against the stream...

My sister started getting into booking and staging Christian concerts, and that allowed me to interview people like Billy Sprague and Eric Champion when they came to town. But I longed to talk one on one with this mysterious creative genius known simply as Rich.

And that is where I'll end this entry. More later.

A day after an anniversary

Well, it's happened ... another one of those inexplicable things that sometimes happens in life.

I got an e-mail about someone from my hometown who's written a book and is offering it in an electronic format. Not too significant, other than it's the perfect way to offer people the manuscript I've been working on for more than a decade.

It works like this: Send them the first two chapters for free, then if they're intrigued enough they can send the author 10 bucks to receive the rest of the book as a PDF through their e-mail.

WOW! Perfect for my triple murder mystery, since my friends and people who live where this happened in the 1920s (Meriden, Kansas) have been eager to read it, and I have no budget for printing. Nor the time or energy to keep querying publishers.

We did have a few highlights along the way. Perhaps some of that will happen again. A guy from Paramount called me, in my home, to see if the book was in a screenplay format. It wasn't. But I wrote it that way. Sent it to a guy my sister knows at William Morris Agency in Nashville. It only received lukewarm coverage (review).

Also received a personal letter from someone at Miramax saying it was an interesting story, and wished me good luck along the way.

Life has gotten in the way. A life-changing, deep despair that altered me forever got in the way. So did a divorce. So did raising two wonderful boys, working full time, driving back and forth to work an hour or more a day, and taking on a second job.

So I forwarded this info about electronic books to the daughter of my co-author. Great idea, she said. What's it gonna cost? And imagine I would hear from you again, just a day after the 6th anniversary of Mom's death, she said ...

Lila wanted the book printed before she died. Heck, she wanted it on the silverscreen. Who knows. Maybe she's sweet-talking God right now, from up there on high.

She always was hard to say no to.

Bless your heart, Lila. We might get that book done for you, after all.

An e-mail to Real Live Preacher

The following is an e-mail I sent off to a fellow blogger who writes authentically about faith and being in the ministry. Some would say he's a bit sacreligious. I just like to say that he's real. His most recent post shows exactly this... and I admire him for showing all his bumps and bruises.

In fact, he calls his blog Real Live Preacher. Here's where you can find his blog. I'm including this because it's the reason I started writing my own blog.

http://blogs.salon.com/0001772/stories/



Hi Gordon,
I started reading your blog a few months ago after reading in an
Episcopalian church bulletin that a man there found it particularly good
reading. Now I'm not Episcopalian, I'm a Methodist... who often found
comfort in this little E. church in my hometown while struggling and trying
to find a God who had hidden His face from me. The liturgy and kneeling
and Communion was soothing...

What I wanted to say about your recent post is, someone recently said
(I think it was Max Lucado during an all-day event) that prayer doesn't
depend on us, how we convey it, if we intend for it to be prayer... it
is the deep longing and feeling that originates inside our hearts and
is sent by the Holy Spirit on high to our Father.

As someone who is exploring how I can combine ministry work with
writing, I admire you for being so open and honest about your misgivings,
frustrations and disappointments... so refreshing in a world where we
often pretend everything is ok because we're obviously not worshiping
correctly if it's not (tongue in cheek).

My travails and wandering in the desert have led me back to the
epiphany that God is God, and nothing I do in this life can change that.
Perhaps He might choose to hide His face from me, but you know what? That
doesn't change his omnipresence... He is here, will be here, was here,
ad nauseum.

Peace, brother.

Kim Benson

The privilege of private conversation

This afternoon, I've been plunking on the Web, waiting for a client to get back with me so I can finish a project. The name Michael Hedges popped into my mind, so I thought I'd see what the Web had to offer these days on one of the greatest and most amazing guitarists I've ever witnessed.

I remembered the day in about 1987 when I left our four-plex at the corner of 19th and Kentucky in Lawrence to search out Mr. Hedges. My magazine article writing class had empowered me with a bit of courage, just enough to call Windham Hill and ask for an interview. Mr. Hedges was playing that night at the old theater downtown.

Windham was nice enough to send me a splashy, mostly black-and-white press kit with a couple of 33 rpm albums. The Mr. Hedges on these glossies was clean cut, wearing a turtle neck. I drove down Mass St. to the Eldrige Hotel across from the theater, where he was to be staying.

Has Mr. Hedges arrived? I asked, legal pad, pen and microphone in tote. No, was the response. So I sat and waited. And waited. And began to fume.

An hour later, I made my demands, I had an interview scheduled with the record label, after all! They were little help. I walked across the street to the theater, explaining to the person at the window when my appointment time was. I had an interview to do. It would be my first beyond the campus, someone who was neither student nor professor.

As I stood there, begging and pleading to know where he was, a guy working on setup for that night walked by, overheard the conversation, and said Michael was staying at the Halcyon, a B&B between downtown and our apartment.

Jumped in my yellow Rabbit, and headed south. The Halcyon didn't have a straightforward front entrance. I knocked on doors, walked around, finally landing at the basement. A man wearing nothing but a towel around his waist peeked out the door. His hair was wild. He looked like a messy, long-haired creature from some B movie. Not the co-founder of Windham that he was.

It was Hedges. Not expecting me, nursing along a bad cold, just moments before, ready to jump in the tub. He excused himself, dressed, and invited me in.

We walked through a foyer or great room, and I believe there were two bedrooms, one on each end. He seemed excited that they'd given him the entire level. We went into the bedroom on the east side of the basement, where there was a twin bed or two. On the floor sat a massive black guitar case and a plastic ring from a juice or milk bottle. The odor was stale, male college dorm.

Hedges excused himself again, blew his nose and apologized. We started the interview. It was the first time I'd used this tape recorder, much less any recorder, during an interview. I had maybe a dozen conversations that could be loosely called interviews behind me. This would be one of my biggest and most important.

I pushed Record, and off we went. I can't recall all that was said, although I'm sure I asked him about his craft, his music, his family. He deeply loved his wife and kids, that much was apparent. I took scant notes, since the recorder was capturing it all for me.

Or so I thought. After I left the Halcyon, drove down Tennessee those few blocks back to our place, punched Play, and nothing. Absolutely nothing. I must have pushed Play instead of Record. In retrospect I should have written down what I recalled... I still have those scant notes. They serve as a reminder never to rely on an electronic device to get a big story. At least I learned that lesson early on in my writing career. I have never forgotten it.

Aside from the faux pas, getting to meet the man and sit in the room where he'd slept while being within a few feet of that giant harp guitar with dual necks was quite amazing.

We went back to the theater that night for the concert. Of course I was still scribbling notes, with much more ferocity than earlier in the day.

And then, when I finished searching for Hedges on the Web today, I remembered... I remembered how he had died in November, only a few months after Rich Mullins, another musician I'd had the privilege of meeting one-on-one for an interview. (More on Mullins later.) Two incredibly talented, individualistic individuals who created music like no others. And the irony of it all... their lives being shortened so drastically. Mullins, dead at 41. Hedges, at 43. Both in car accidents. Neither won the prestigious awards of their crafts. Mullins, a multi-Dove nominee, Hedges, a Grammy nominee.

Sometimes life is just too thick to pick up with a fork. Sometimes you just have to watch it there as it sits on the plate, and shake your head in disbelief.

Singing in a new year

We made it through our first Sunday in the choir loft... those hearty souls who've stuck with choir, some for as long as 50 years, as well as folks so new their bodies had never seen the inside of a church choir robe.

We're all a bit rusty, my directing included, and we strain and complain about the high notes a little more than usual. It didn't help that our new million-dollar air conditioning system wouldn't cooperate until halfway through the service. So much for the freshly dry-cleaned robes!

I was amazed at the beginning of Wed. night rehearsal last week, when people kept coming and coming up the stairs to the choir loft. We figured if everyone came who had last year, was new this year, or had said they planned to come, we'd have about 25 or 26 people. That's a lot more than last season, to be sure!

I could find scant info on the Net about choir recruiting, and I'm not one of those stand-up-and-holler-from-the-pews kind of announcement-makin' people. So I guess the teasers in the newsletter and bulletins, with some comic relief injected, did the trick. That, and a lot of surrendering to God.

When I started directing less than a year ago, I was worried about how I was going to bring people in and keep them. What I didn't understand is that it has little to do with me. Yes, I do everything I can to be as prepared and as energized and loving as possible, but no amount of effort on my part would matter, if God didn't want our little choir to go on.

It appeared we might cease to be in existence when our last choir director left. The director before her, who held the position for many years, may have stepped in ... but certainly we felt the potential that our little group might fade away.

I didn't want that to happen. Our choir had been a part of my life since I was a teenager. I dearly loved, and still love, the people in it. But I didn't want to force it to happen, in fact, I was quite daunted by the thought of directing. Sure, I'd stood before my bedroom mirror as a preteen with the pretend mike and sang, and occasionally air-directed some classical music. But to be a real choir director?

I left it up to God. I was available, made myself known. Said I'd give it a shot when it finally came down to it.

From the looks of things, we might just overflow the women's sections. The men's section always needs more numbers, but then again, I guess I'll just leave it up to God!

Some stuff from the past

singing "Sunshine on my Shoulders"
pretending to be John Denver or some Rocky Mountain explorer

the grass was long, thin, deep emerald green
softly tickling your toes
if you wandered far enough north
you would tread underfoot
deliciously plump purple berries
never knowing until you tracked them indoors

back at home
the flavor put you in a trance
made you forget everything for awhile
except the soaking
the stewing of your tender toes
in a tub of Clorox water

to the south was a briar patch
a scratchy maze of thorns and bushes
only the bravest ventured within

we had a fort out back
on one end of the evergreens
broke half the boughs off
so we could climb through the branches
high up to the sky
until the tree trunk became a bending wisp

the little evergreen buds
hard as rocks, big around as marbles,
made good missiles
we lined them up on bricks in rows
and were glad the big kids were on our side

beyond the trees the fields
gave way to a dirt road
the farthest we dared was a hill
in the distance a train whistle blew

before there were circles in the wheat
rumored to be made my aliens
we made little homes by rolling around
room by room

in the spring a dad made a paper kite
out of the funny papers
we plod through the clods
the wheat plowed under

Almost 40

I turned 39 this weekend. On a Saturday. Just like the first day I appeared on this earth. I remember another Saturday birthday. I was 11. Had spent the night with a friend in the small town of Burrton, Kan., about 30 miles away from home. 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover was spinning on my friend's turntable. Of course it was a 45 record. We were too young to be able to afford an entire album. Even if someone gave you a fiver, you had to beg change off your parents for the tax.

Once we grew tired of hearing Paul Simon tell us how we could dump someone, we walked downtown, climbed in a dumpster behind the local tavern, and scavenged for empty aluminum beer cans.

Back in those days, you had to pick up a can to tell if it was aluminum or the old, unrecyclable kind. It's kind of interesting, being 11 and smelling like a brewery. I went home Saturday morning and opened a long tube that came through the mail from my sister. It was a poster of The Fonz. For those of you too young to remember, Arthur Fonzarelli was THE coolest guy on the planet. Never mind he looked several years older than the high school crowd he hung out with. Today, he might get arrested for what he did. Back then, everything was innocent.

Like being 11 and smelling like a brewery...

In the beginning

In the beginning, there were words. And the words were good...

This is a new blog about the deeper moments of life. When they're so thick, you can pick them up with a fork.