Sweeping forested vistas, scary car rides up the mountain, ice skating, catching up conversations by a fire, meals together and children’s squeals of laughter…. these were the sights and sounds of our family’s Thanksgiving weekend.

Our children, Ben and Emily, Sarah and Damian, called us about a month ago and surprised us by telling us they wanted to celebrate our 70th birthdays together. They rented a huge cabin outside of Gatlinburg, Tennessee and invited us to spend the Thanksgiving weekend with both of their families. They were so excited and we were so overtaken by how thrilled these thoughtful two wonders of ours were. Both Pam and I couldn’t believe it…. pretty emotional stuff for both of us.

Our children know us…. they know our tendencies to keep things simple. We don’t have a bucket list…. we’ve done everything that we have dreamed for ourselves…. but this this is a whole different universe from a bucket list. This is what fulfills Pam and me beyond description. We were waited on, hand and foot…like royalty. This entire weekend embodied all things family….and all things poignant and beautiful.

Getting to watch our littlest granddaughter, cousin celebrity and family ringmaster, Maya interacting with Sarah’s girls, or snuggling in the early mornings with Tessa, our 7 year old princess, joking back and forth with our 11 year old fashionista, Blythe, and get tickled silly by my fourteen year old gem, Georgia, I counted a pleasure…lavish….and humbling.

In our time together, I thought about a phrase I have used before referring to how secluded our lives become by living in our own “little harbors”, and unconsciously thinking that’s the way everyone lives. There are countless families who have never experienced what Pam and I did this weekend. It’s okay to enjoy what we have, but a real insular misstep is to forget that this is not the way all the world works in God’s teeming ocean of souls.

Now in my seventies, I’ve had more than my share of conversations with compatriots, who in confidence have expressed feelings of being dismissed, unappreciated, angry and irremediable. Although these sentiments are understandable, I have the same thoughts on this dilemma as I do “writer’s block.”

When I retired, I retired from the rat race, I didn’t quit believing in my gifting. My gifting didn’t go anywhere. I still have it. The truth is that in my case for instance, I can no longer hear as critically as before and find myself visually impaired. I can’t really produce in the studio anymore. So what?!!! I can still write songs, blogs and books. I can be creative in other contexts.

Here’s the deal. I don’t believe in writers block. I DO believe that if I’m having difficulty, it means I’ve quit going out and engaging with people…I’ve quit noticing stuff…I’ve become isolated, not realizing that my tank is empty. Ya gotta get out there and fill up the tank…keep looking, keep believing, reading, writing and rewriting.

The younger generation does tend sometimes to dismiss the elder in the practical. As I look back, I think that if I’m honest, I was not immune to that same tendency. Young people have a lot of fiery passion, and they like doing things their own way. I totally get it. It’s the flow of life and you move in the current. I can’t fight it, so I just gotta let it work for me in this next season of the march home. Life is a series of letting go…and it’s okay.

In my later years, I have the choice to either pity myself, stay bitter, give up…or…I can encourage these young creative champions of song, artistry and production. How about giving yourself away to whomever, whenever and however. How about a little gratefulness for what you do have,….because whatever you have now…God has given you….and what He’s given you….Is enough. And if it’s not enough ….you’ll never be happy.

Thankfulness ….. That’ll clear up that elegiac rash right away!!!!

Much is written of honor and loss on this perennial marking of Veteran’s Day. For me, not just a casual observance.

The victorious soldier conquers not only the enemy, but the bundled tumult of bubbling fear, homesickness, escape, submission to authority and the impending bedlam. I know nothing of this, the battlefield and it’s realtime reality. I was spared from it. Internally I wished not to be in that situation, but was willing to go, yet ultimately my military service ended up stateside. I did not live for war… few did…but these brave ones whether inspired, resigned or reticent…marched on. Today, I celebrate those who did.

I also cannot forget the residual familial wreckage of the battlefield…and the avalanche of death and bewilderment in the aftermath. Today, I celebrate those who live or have lived through it.

I have lost dear friends to this disease of war. ..and today, still wonder where all the flowers have gone.

I was watching traffic as I sat at a bus stop in Zelenograd, Russia, and the late October air felt crisp and chilly. All of a sudden I felt these little hands rubbing against my shirt. I turned my head, and there she was, a beautiful 90 -year old babushka (grandmother) smiling at me. “Where is your coat?” My dear friend, Marla translated her question for me. “You are going to get very cold,” she went on. She rubbed my arms and smiled. It took me no time to put my arm around her and she cuddled right up next to me. I joked, “Mother didn’t catch me before I got out of my apartment.” She chuckled as she heard my translated reply. It was one of the most beautiful moments of my yearly trip to Russia.

I cannot begin to tell you about all the precious people I met in my short 11-day stay. Musicians from all over Russia and beyond journeyed from Norilsk, Omsk, Siberia, Atyrau, Kazakhstan, Astana, Kazakhstan, Chisinau, Moldova, Uzbekistan, Yaroslavl, Russia to name just a few. Some flew for three hours or drove for a day and a half to participate in the RussiaWorship Conference. The event was hosted by the founders of RussiaWorship, Gerry and Marla Schroeder.

The Russians are a hearty people, and in the urban centers have grown up with buses, trains and a whole lot of walking. I know this first hand, because the first day I visited the city center of Moscow and literally walked for 5 hours with additional bus and train rides. I could see the influence of the World Cup being held there, because most every major site and public transport were in both English and Russian. This was not so in previous years when I visited.

We hear so much about Russia in negative terms, but there is a major difference between political action and the actual citizenry. The welcoming spirit and kindness shown to me was persistently overwhelming. I think of my sweet friends, Kristina and Dima, who took Bob Clark and me to their home. We had the most restful and delightful time in their beautiful apartment. We talked of their life there, of family, of dreams we had for the future and our mutual love of God. I don’t know how it could have been a better day spent for me. At the conference, there was so much love shown to me as I spent time listening and exchanging ideas with the unbelievably gifted creatives.

It was the little things that meant so much, like the bar of chocolates from Tatiana. Tatiana is a wonderful musician, marathoner, translator, and pastor now living in Minsk. I have known her for years and she and her family have become so dear to me. She came to me and said, “Would you give this bar of chocolates to Pam., do you think she would enjoy it?” without hesitation I replied…”Does it get dark at night?” I gave her a most thankful hug. It’s these moments that being me back. These eager young writers, musicians and artists are so willing to listen and become more proficient. However, they don’t realize it is the US team who are the beneficiaries of their input as well. A glorious give and take to be sure. And how could I forget my brilliant interpreter, Marsha (Mahsha) Vikhrova. I can’t thank her enough for all she did for me.

I am never the same person I was upon my arrival, as I am when I leave. Looking out the window of the airplane on my way back home, I knew this. I need no language skills to love these kindly hearts…. and oh, my sweet “babushka…. Dasvidaniya.

What a beautiful evening it was!!!! “For King And Country” was playing at the Ryman Auditorium in Nashville and My daughter, Sarah and her husband Damian and all three of their daughters came with me to hear this truly gifted group. Luke and Joel Smallbone with a great supporting band and brother, Daniel’s awesome light-show were indeed a tour de force. The experience was a feast of great songs , percussive, power and a light show that continually transported you to fascinating emotional images smartly serving the storyline. It was an evening of theatrical contrast and messages of relevant spiritual import. I watched my daughter and her children, the row of young girls in front of us, probably in college, all transfixed on that stage.

I was so graciously given six tickets from the group’s father, David Smallbone. Our families have a history that extends back to when they first arrived here from Australia. We have really not seen each other a great deal since the early days , but have continued to love them from a distance. This familial entourage has become one of the most influential voices for young Christians…. but it didn’t start out that way.

David was offered a music industry job in America and the whole family (now seven children) packed up to move with him. Unfortunately, the job soon fell through. With no money to return to Australia, the family began to do odd jobs together such as cleaning houses. Through the next two years, they lived on prayer and not much else. Someone gave them keys to a van and another person paid the bills for the youngest Smallbone child, Libby, to be born in a hospital. It was during this time of duress that our families intersected with each other.

This clan, like the Phoenix, literally has risen from the ashes through perseverance, hard work and listening to the voice of the Lord. One of my bible study buddies, Rod Huff worked with them on the film, “Priceless.” He told me he has never encountered more hard working people in his life. This film on human trafficking was greatly funded by the Smallbones and they acted in the production as well.

The oldest Smallbone sister, Rebecca St. James was the first of the family to rise to national attention in the Contemporary Christian genre. Both Rebecca and For King and Country have been awarded all manner of Grammy, Dove, gold and platinum status. However, it has never been an award that drives them…it is their belief in the message of faith they bring.

In their concert they uphold the dignity of women, challenge the men to respect women, and are extremely vulnerable as they talk about issues of addiction and redemption. I couldn’t wish for my granddaughters to hear anything more important in this stage of their lives than what was spoken at this concert. We sat there, three generations of us, absolutely engaged by the presentation. That in and of itself speaks volumes to why this group remains so successful.

Their story of trials and accomplishment reminds me of a Wayne Watson lyric I love so well.

(From “A Beautiful Place”)

And the unspoiled beauty of the wisdom of God

Lies in the wilderness

Up there beyond the easy reach

Where the journey takes a little more faith I guess

Mistakes and misfortunes will come and go

But to try and to fail, it’s no disgrace

Sometimes a rough and a rocky road

Can take you to a beautiful place.

A “tell” in poker is a change in a player’s behavior or demeanor that is claimed by some to give clues to that player’s assessment of their hand. A player gains an advantage if they observe and understand the meaning of another player’s tell, particularly if the tell is unconscious and reliable. Pam has a “tell.”

“Honey, I wanna talk to you about something.” That’s the phrase she uses on me. I’m talking about when there is something not good about to happen. That phrase is, “the tell…for me. It’s more scary to me than an ending of a Stephen King novel, and it always happens about the same way too. She comes over to me and sits right next to me with stuff in her hand. The evidentiary nails for my coffin. Today it was an envelope, some papers and a credit card.

“Honey” (She always uses the word “honey” to help soften the blow…or possibly to set me up for greater impact… like the moment the bullfighter lifts his “espada” to deliver the “coup de grâce.”)

“Honey, you remember that we had to get new credit cards made because businesses couldn’t read the magnetic strip on your card and had to type them in. “Uh huh.” “Well,” she continued, “I called the credit card company, had those cards re-issued and I asked you to sign yours? “Uh huh.” So far so good..I’d signed the card like she asked. “Yah, I took care of all of that.” Pam spoke quietly as she continued.

“Yes, you did. Greg. You took care of it all right,” her voice mounting in volume. “Unfortunately you signed your name on the magnetic strip….and not the strip you were supposed to sign. I tried the card and it’s ruined, Greg. And what did you do with the attachment with the number to activate the card?” Telling her that throwing it in the garbage might have been a little hasty oversight on my part certainly didn’t quell the storm whatsoever.

Greg, why is it SO difficult for you to complete a simple household task. What’s worse, you keep making excuses for all of it. Like the time you told me you had something wonderful to show me, and tried to convince me you were trying to redesign the two new blouses I had just purchased as nouveau “tie dye” designs because you had mistakenly poured bleach into the washer instead of soap. Then you had the audacity to say, “Well, everybody makes a little mistake now and then.” “Exasperated, she went on ”Well that may be true for some, but for you its never just a little mistake and never “now and then”…IT’S CONTINUAL, GREG!!!!!

Two weeks ago, you didn’t put any soap in the washer and tried to talk your way out of it by saying it was an unfortunate error…well it was unfortunate 2 more times after that. When I was laid up in the chair with my broken ankle, all my flowers that you were supposed to water… died…and you started singing “Where Have All The Flowers Gone” to try and make me feel better. I didn’t feel better…I just wanted to tear my hair out and curl up in a fetal position.”

She always knows when something’s up….she has this “Greg’s done something” radar thing going, and I can’t get anything by her. It’s like living with Perry Mason and a psychic all in one body.

I do have to say, that she always comes to me and says, “You know I love you, right? It’s just that some days are harder than others.” Then she gives me a kiss. I love that part. It is a very necessary moment for me. Somehow, one of the pots Pam is using for a garage sale this Saturday has kind of a little bitty crack in it…….. I’m not tellin”.

Last weekend, Bob Farrell and I traveled to New York City for the Carnegie Hall performance celebrating the 25th Anniversary of “Saviour.”it was lovely.

As we drove into Manhattan from the LaGuardia Airport, I asked our Nepali Uber driver what his country was like. He told me that Nepal was a much quieter and simple life. He went on to say that there was a strong Nepali component in the Jackson Heights, Queens section of New York. Many Nepalese fled to Queens between the mid-1990s and 2006 amid the bloody, decade-long Maoist insurgency that led to the abolition of the country’s monarchy. Most of the people who fled seeking political asylum were young and came without their families. Buddiss, our driver was one of those who fled. Is amazing what you learn in a short ride to your hotel.

I loved the meld of culture you experience in an urban environment. It is a very beautiful sight. You are immediately overwhelmed by the explosion of extraordinary accomplishment, historically, artistically and industrially. Wow!!!

In the teeming drift of faces I saw all manner of expressions and intensity. The New Yorkers do have the edge you hear about, but even in the brash continuum I met some very kind and loving people in delis, shops and among hotel staff. Oh sure, there is the dark side. I know that all too well. I was stationed in the Army at Ft. Hamilton in Brooklyn. Once, in the middle of the day, on a busy sidewalk, in front of God and everybody, I got mugged by a 12 or 13 year old boy who pressed a knife right up into my shoulder blade and told me he would cut me if I didn’t give him my billfold. He was just a little guy, but as he held the knife in his very nervous hand… he had a streetwise voice and sense about him, so I gladly, and most hurriedly relinquished it to him. He simply scampered off. Not a happy experience.

I saw a myriad of cameras in the hands of tourists taking pictures of famous buildings and famous landmarks. It got me to thinking. How enamored people are with famous and important people. I know I like taking my picture with people I admire. Ray Charles has a great quote that has made me take a step back from my instant t to saddle up for a picture with fame. He said, “I never wanted to be famous…just great.” Great at what he did without fame driving him.

One of the most profound milestone events in my life was hearing Father Brennan Manning, the author of “Ragamuffin Gospel” at a private conclave for some high visibility artists and producers in the late 90’s. As he addressed the attendees, he said something that I would not understand until later. He spoke of a universal problem we all had. “I feel sorry for you.” He paused and then continued. “Most of you have three cancers. One is money, two is power and three is significance. “You may not understand now, but by your mid fifties you will”. He told us that we were the recipients of so much attention and marketed as a commodity with tremendous access to comfort, that we were unable to see the discomfort of others. And even if we could get a glimpse it, we were too busy being successful to do much about it.

My head was spinning and I was confused. I thought I was doing a good thing writing and producing the message of Christ and His kingdom. It was as Manning predicted, not until I was in my fifties, did it become clear to me how little I fully understood what I was writing. It was in this season of my life I began to truly understand that nothing I have is mine. Nothing I have done is about me. It is God’ and God’s alone. Oh I could say that…I sure did…but I really didn’t get it.

I began to realize how powerful my secretive love of significance was. I would stand in front of people and tell them I wanted to give all glory to Jesus, and I was really sincere about it in that moment..…but three days later, if my name was not given credit for something I thought I deserved….the Strong Man rose up in me and demanded his pound of flesh. I discreetly kept silent…but I wanted credit. You can never know what is in the heart of people. God does.

I don’t want to make it sound like I got everything figured out just then either…my life is a mess in so many other areas that’s it’s going to take more than this lifetime to sort it all out.

“Well just don’t do anything then” was Pam’s advice to me the other day when I hit a dead end on a blog I was writing. The bulk of the thought was complete but I couldn’t close it. “You don’t HAVE to be doing something all of the time.” (Really…REALLY!!! …..well just tell that to my DNA/ADHD advisory board)

I told her I was writing a blog post and was having trouble completing it. It was like my brain just “shut down for vacation” and decided not to let me finish. I was in a twit, and Pam knows when that happens, I get restless. “Just calm down and it will come to you.” I knew she was right…but it gets a little annoying for me…I mean that part where she’s always right part. I was reminded that Hemmingway rewrote the last page of “Farewell To Arms” 39 times. Well I’m not remotely in the same universe as that great author, and I was well past 39 times. It is so frustrating to write even a simple email, much less a post for me. Some people are really prolific, quick witted and brainy…. I just plod along like a scatty turtle.

It’s next to impossible for me to slow down. I love discovering things, meeting people, listening to music, podcasts and creating stuff. I can’t write about anything I’m not absolutely passionate about. I use the speech function on my computer to read back to me what I’ve written, and if I get bored listening…. It’s rewrite, tweak, rewrite, tweak and rewrite again.

Well….I took Pam’s advice and went up to my writing room and played a couple games of Madden Football on the “Rookie” (easiest) setting. I picked the best team to play the weakest team and let a little steam out by beating the poo-poo out of that poor crummy team. It’s so cathartic and fulfilling in such a beautifully hostile way. All that to say, that didn’t last very long so I started talking to myself and saying, “Okay Greg just sit here for a moment and be calm like Pam does it…. restful quiet and reserved. I really started to get the hang of it …for about 20 seconds, give or take a few and immediately rediscovered something I‘ve always known.

IT DOES NOT WORK…THAT DOES NOT WORK AT ALL FOR ME!!! I AM NOT PAM!!! I WILL NEVER BE PAM!!!!! PAM IS NORMAL!!!! GREG IS NUTS!!!!! (Deep breath)

I feel much better now that I let that out. Cheers!!!!

I love my friends. ….friends from every corner of life perspectives and persuasion. Each person gives me great joy, and I could not live without them. They are God given gifts to me…. even if they don’t believe there is a Gift Giver. Precious all….each wonderfully made.

I post this poem in an effort to make sense of all of the “noise“in the world fracas. There is no guile in any word of it. Please don’t take this as an invitation to share political beliefs. That is not the purpose of this post.

I would like to qualify the word “love” to which I refer in the following poem.

“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.”

WHAT LOVE CAN DO

In the fields of civic rabble

War has broken friendship ties

Truth, whose truth, the whipping question

Battles rage for cause and rights

Individuation mounting

Hating clouds form hanging rope

Mortal wisdom, helpless midwife

Birthing yet more stillborn hope

Children mimic spurious notions

Faulty syllogistic ruse

Change becomes a weakened whimper

Now let’s see what Love can do

Souls from towers, backwood hollers

Many poised to swing the sword

Some use angry poet’s skill with

Wounding demonizing words

Tightly holding to perfection

Ancient bane to what is good

Will we ever come together

Know respect that’s understood

See how tribalist increasing

Separate us more and more

How does one restore a oneness

Never truly one before

Eloquence and worlds of insight

Cannot change the resolute

Attitudes the only locksmith

Now let’s see what Love can do

Now let’s see what Love can do

A poem by Greg Nelson

Poppie’s Hallel

There was a lot of laughter and gaiety last night. I was at a celebratory dinner for the Both Hands organization a very unique and loving effort to help widows in need while also raising funds for people who are wishing to adopt a child, but need a little help to get through the process. To date this effort championed by JT and Sara Olson has organized 841 projects, the repair and restorative work for 928 widows and facilitated the adoption of 1054 beautiful children in need of a loving home. These endeavors are occurring throughout the United States. People give money to Both Hands for each project. The workers and materials are donated and the money that is raised goes to facilitate the adoption of the orphans.

Our bible study guys were there. We’ve been together for close to 25 years. JT is in this group. We’re an eclectic bunch, with a retired CFO, a marketing guru, a country songwriter (ASCAP Songwriter Of The Year), a financial advisor, and an executive working with non-profit organizations, a musician/producer/songwriter whiz .and myself. We talk about everything from football, national news and spiritual questions to personal struggles we face from week to week. It’s nothing to abandon the scheduled study if one of us is hurting.. It is a safe place to blow off steam and be transparent about our life and our views. Nothing shared leaves the room. We challenge each other on topics, but always walk away with no laundry left at the end of our together time.

As we sat and listened to the program, I was overwhelmed by the vision the Olson’s had. All funds go to the projects. Administrative costs and salaries are raised separately from private support. Even the dinner was provided by an anonymous donor. But probably the most moving element to me was JT’s story.

He was a corn fed, farm-bred boy raised on land near Harpers Ferry, Iowa. When he was 12 years old, , he returned home one evening after playing at his friends farm. His parents were out on a special date to celebrate their 16th wedding anniversary. Because he was dirty from the day’s activities with his buddy, he immediately headed for the basement to get cleaned up before he came upstairs. As he was getting ready, , his brother came downstairs and JT asked him, “Are mom and dad home yet?” What he was about to hear next would be a life altering reply. “Mom and dad are dead. They were killed in a car accident about an hour ago. “ JT stared into the puffy red eyes of his brother, who turned around and slowly walked back upstairs. A twinge of fear and a whirlwind of emotions came as a flood. What were they gonna do? This was a family of five children, and now there was no one to tend to them. Lost, ambushed by a powerful blow from life’s harsh mysteries, JT sat there in that basement all by himself, the most all by himself he’d ever felt in his whole young life. Tender. Tender he was,…and hope….well hope was as the faint sound of a bleating lamb wandering around in a field… far…far….far away.

As JT recalled that dark time in his life, the emotion of the memory echoed in his voice. Even though long ago, it was evident that the memory was ever close to his heart as he spoke. He went on, “So I know very well what it means to be orphaned.” There was a momentary pause…as his voice faltered. I believed him, and I understood this was not just a nice thing he and Sara were doing for these people. It was so much more than that.

But here comes the good part. Without blinking an eye, his uncle took all five children into his home and raised them. He was 33 and had three children of his own. This was an incredible sacrifice on his part. As I sat listening, the scripture, “ No greater love than this that someone lay down his life for his friends,” took on new meaning for me just then. JT went on to say, “ So I also understand what it means to be rescued.”

At that moment, I was struck with the thought that this was such a clear picture of God’s meticulous weave. The evening in essence was showing me how God was using JT and that frightening night in Iowa for his purposes .. and with Both Hands, revealing how something so terrible can be made so beautifully bountiful.

James 1:27

“Pure and undefiled religion before our God and Father is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself unstained by the world.”