I have been greatly saddened by the news of Bill Hearn’s passing on Sunday. I was notified that afternoon and my mind flooded with grief, remembrances and gratefulness for God releasing him from a very grueling medical journey.

I loved Michael Card’s simple summation. Bill was the same person he knew in the warehouse in the beginnings as was he a leader at the end. What a telling statement of consistency and humility. In 1977, I remember him working in the back of the building that housed the offices of Sparrow Records in Canoga Park, California. This was in Sparrow’s infancy when I was Director of Publishing. Back then, he was always working on his golf game. It was a joy to visit with him at the Christmas parties and special occasions held at Billy Ray and Joanne’s home. Tutored by the best possible teacher he could ever have hoped for, his father…. Bill worked his way up through the ranks of the warehouse, marketing and then heading the organization. I served with him on the NARAS board and produced records under his leadership at EMI Christian.

Father Brennan Manning spoke to a group of industry leaders and artists just a year before his passing. He told us power, adulation and money can do tragic things to a person….”They’re seductive, and can be like a disease…relentless and devastating”. It was never so with Bill. He had a “people first” warmth of heart. From my window, I viewed him as a very private person with the exception of a few close friends. Always gracious, he had a steamroller work ethic and anyone around him was motivated because of his energy. He was a listener and you never had the feeling that he was just waiting for you to complete your idea so he could tell you his. He actually listened.

I remember on two occasions where his compassion and kindness shone through. I was working with an artist at Sparrow and was excited for the release of their first record. I got a call from Bill while I was at a music conference at Hilton Head. He told me that the company had decided to put their energies into another artist rather than the one with whom I was working. He assured me that they believed in my artist, but wanted to take more time to develop a prudent strategy. I was disappointed of course, but in hindsight I saw the wisdom of the decision. What is more important here is that he made me feel like I mattered to him. This was Bill Hearn. He didn’t have to check in with me…but he did…that’s the point. The other occasion was when I sold one of my early catalogues to Sparrow. It was a very difficult thing for me to do emotionally. I hesitated right at the end…not because of money, their offer was very generous. I was having a hard time letting go because it was like I was saying goodbye to part of my heart. I was just so fragile in the moment of separation. It was Bill Hearn who wrote probably one of the kindest letters I have ever received. He consoled me, understood the difficulty of my decision and what I was feeling. He intuitively realized the why of it all. ..that is a leader. That’s what separates the executive who has title and position….from someone who truly is a leader.

Through the decades of operating in this industry I have encountered as many varying types of leaders as there are colors of the rainbow. Few have had the great leadership qualities that Bill Hearn possessed. There is a tremendous substantive void which now exists in Contemporary Christian Music…and it will not be readily filled. Our industry has lost two of it’s most influential men. …Billy Ray and Bill Hearn. From the dawn of the Jesus movement to what is now Contemporary Christian music, both men have done so much for so many people, even when they didn’t have to…but that’s just the way they were.

Bill Hearn was a powerful leader in his own right, and he did things his way with the valued mentorship of his dad. He was a tireless champion for his company and for Christian music. I hurt for his family and friends; I hurt for myself and hurt for the industry, because he represents everything honorable and caring that is Contemporary Christian Music.

It is said that there is no peace for a great man…..maybe now.

“Be at rest, be at rest once more

O my soul, for the Lord has been good

Be at rest, be at rest once more

O my soul, o my soul

Be at rest once more

For the Lord has been good to you”

(Jeremy Johnson)

My friend, David Hahn tendered this question. It’s a good one that got me thinking.

“If the worship songs you sing were the only theology you had, would they be sufficient to sustain a mature and abiding spiritual walk? One that can face the tough questions of life?”

I love the hypothetical here. It is a very timely question that is filled with twists and turns. As I look out from one of the countless diverse theological windows of the denominational world, I doubt that these questions can be easily answered. I do have some questions though.

1. Whose version of theological correctness?

2. What do you consider the tough questions of life?

It is true that these offerings are often the only means from which many Christians derive their theology. Let’s strip it down. Hymns, worship songs art, dance, etc. are an enormous influence in our lives, but they only are a reflection of the Word. They by themselves have no more power to permanently sustain than an image of a steak dinner reflected in a mirror has the ability to feed you.

The glaring problem in this context is accountability to the Word. To whom are songwriters accountable? Without some oversight, the potential for murky watered concepts and poorly mined assumptions are quite possible. Slowly, inattention or casualness to study scripture, personal opinion and human logic all have the potential to take over a songsmith’s heart, and therein lies fertile ground for the Gospel to be displaced. It’s much like the pathway of the Gnostics….no matter how well intentioned the songwriters …little by little, the truth is orphaned along the way and really no believer is safe on this tenuous footing. Every lyric must be weighed against scripture….but will it?

My “shoot from the hip” answer to this question is there aren’t…and will never be enough hymns, spiritual songs or endless combinations of worship songs even with the most powerful creative content, that could sustain a believer to any degree of maturity or deep spiritual continuum.

The commercial songwriter is in the business of whittling down lyrical ideas for simplicity and time, because they only have 3 to 4 minutes to convey their idea and tell their story. I understand this, I am a product of 42 years in that arena. Some ideas only require that short time frame, but the deeper issues of the Bible require far more. I think for the most part songwriters are on their own.

Recording and publishing entities have a commercial bent driven by economics, and those who directly oversee these creatives are not theologians. They are musical business people. These are good people who do their best to be discerning , and in most cases love God with great fervor. But the fact remains, it is not beyond the realm of possibility to have writers who have written some formidable songs in their careers, enjoy (because of previous successes) the perception that every one of their songs must be theologically taut, whether or not it is true. It happens. Many times..not all…this confluence of economics, consumer market perception and weakness in the accountability of a songwriter, does not bode well for a healthy theological outcome.

I appreciate David’s response back to me..

“Each generation must grapple with life and must give voice to the Gospel in answer to sing to the Lord …a new song. Songwriters need to write the full counsel of God for today, much as the ancients have in the early church: the Kyrie, Gloria, Credo, Sanctus, and Agnus Dei.”

His point of presenting the full counsel of the Lord is critical. One example for me is not seeing many references to the Trinity in modern day hymnody or songs of worship. I think the issue there is that the Trinity is difficult to romanticize. But that’s a whole nother bunny trail I don’t have time to address in this blog.

But now we come back to the question…whose theology? In context of a mass market it’s complicated. For me the simple answer is simple. Trust only the Word.

Here’s my postlude. What an overall saddened state the church finds itself at present. It has been sorely weakened in the continual acquiescence to culture and the selective dismissal of what is, the authority of scripture….and the only response from the Body is a disquieting impotence that finds believers saying….”What happened?”. The “rightness” of different factions of faith is at play as well. There are mainstream denominations that center on the awe of God, Evangelicals with their focus on the teachings of Jesus, and Pentecostals and Charismatics stressing the experiential elements in faith…each more than not, dismissing the other with little deference. It’s a mess, not unity, plain and simple. There’s much more to sort out here than hymns and spiritual songs. A lot more. This post is no less important though, and is a wonderful challenge for all of us to think. Thank you for that, David.

Just one opinion here, and how ever well intended….ever prone to hyperbole and error. Cheers!!! 😍

Pam and I are in the afterglow of Thanksgiving right now. We are also in the midst of recanting mashed potatoes and stuffing and hurling Thanksgiving Invectives for baking a dried out turkey because we thought the pop-up thermometer was defective. …but it wasn’t…..

All this begs the query….Why are all the scenes of Thanksgiving dinner ones with the smiling family all gathered round a beautiful table of food (but not showing the 31 side dishes requiring three additional card tables on which to put the food?….You know…the food that someone thought would be a nice little extra to bring).) How can everyone be looking so happy when they already know that crummy “I’m not feeling too good” is waiting for them at the end of the road.. I think they should should start posting the devastating aftermath…The revelry of bodily functions going off like a Gatling gun …. and of course, the “fun walk” after the meal, to walk off some calories…. You know…..the little jaunt where aunt Harriet goes into cardiac arrest because she can’t keep up with the rest of the group. I know now why they call it Black Friday. It’s not that people are getting gifts for someone else,. they’re out trying to buy new clothes that are one size bigger…No wonder they’re all mad and everything!!!

Now that I’m wearing hearing aids and my eyesight is very poor, I just sit in the chair and watch what I can make out of the bedlam. The voices of excited children, multiple conversations with people talking over each other, guys watching the football game in the same room and the flurry of pots, pans and dishes….and this all at maximum volume. My head is exploding!!!

But somehow….someway…I feel a percolating joy in it all. The closeness…. A quick hug…. I loving touch….rubbing noses with my granddaughter and then getting a little kiss….a warm smile…old and newly taken photos… traditional family recipes and the customary way we do things…sharing stories…..young ears listening…for some families, a prayer….laughter…some tears…This is the theater of Thanksgiving….A familial grip no matter the number of people or how they are configured…whether by blood. history or new relationships……Love is.

Cheers!!! ❤️

I appreciate, but have little time for “what used to be”. It is what “can be” that gets me up in the morning and invigorates my day.

The longer my existence on planet earth…the more I realize the ever evolving climate change of passions that once drove me. I highly regarded great artistry, and creativity in many areas. My obsessive compulsive nature enjoyed a dedication to what was in reality, the absolute worship of music, and everything that surrounded it. Deep down, I couldn’t understand how people could really enjoy any other kind of life more than being a musician. It was beyond me and my shallow notions. These weren’t things I spoke out loud, but they were certainly scurrying about in my thinking.

Early on, I relished past accomplishments in production and songwriting…you know….my “doings”. Accolades were an encouragement and spurred me on to be better and even more meticulous than before. But now I have a literal room full of kind acknowledgments, an honorary doctorate, industry honors and awards with more already put away in closets….few of which even my children would care to keep . What are they going to do with them? So I come closer to my ending point, and at the 70 years mark I’m left with the love of my family and the anticipation of meeting the real author of these songs and creative realizations.

So then there’s the part about my “being”… you know…who I really am, and that is a far cry from my “doings. Here I must confess that I have a history that publicly has given God the credit for my work, which did portend a deeply spiritual character on my part…but in actuality,with surreptitious discretion…I inwardly lusted after my own success…replete with benign Godly gratitude. How’s that for a combo. I knew God gave me the instinctive ability…but simply said, I wanted to get the credit so people would like me. It’s the only conclusion to which I can reckon my strong reaction when not being credited or slighted in mention. This quiet storm of course belies an even deeper underlying superficiality, a hungry lion that will not be tamed. There is no taming this desire to be significant…this want of being wanted..this need to be appreciated. So it manifested in me by appearing outwardly unbothered, while I murmured with inward complaint. Even worse, I have multiple areas in my life that include this sort of unspoken but mindful bubbling anger.

These are the things I have to be worked out in my prayer life. Personal things. Real things that desperately need God’s transforming work by whatever means necessary. There are not enough years left to be totally refined by the Refiner’s fire…I guess there never really are.

Though very slowly…it has dawned on me me that I can’t hold on to something that was never mine in the first place. Mine is to worship the creator, not the creation….something that should have begun in me a long time ago.

Oh my goodness, it was time for Pam and me to have our regular visit to our dermatologist to see what had been growing on our bodies recently. Pam has little skin things and tiny moles that have been  diagnosed as “questionable” and I have like rash patches and skin tags here and there…but usually no big deal. We are always checked out by our doctor together and so it’s like a little event at the offices there. I don’t know if this is an indication but everyone in the receptionist’s area kinda light up, you know, sorta like when you are opening Christmas presents and stuff like that. I think their exuberance had something to do with what happened last time we came.

We were taken into the examining room and asked to put on our blue paper negligee….you know…the ones that have the flimsy strings that always tear off while you become a contortionist trying to tie them. Well, this fine day I had changed into “the gown” and was waiting. All of a sudden I had to go to the bathroom…that happens more frequently the older you get. I was trying to decide if I should …make that trip… or wait until we were done. Pam said, “You better go now rather than in the middle of the examination. That would be so weird if she had to stop and wait for you to do that.”

Pam was right, so I timidly opened the door to see if the coast was clear. Unfortunately for me, the coast was NOT clear at all. As I stepped out, a lady with her little boy was walking past our door and I said, “ Hi there.” Well some things are better left unsaid in some situations…in particular…when you’re standing in a blue paper gown. The woman gave me a dirty look and quickened her pace as she nervously yanked the little boy’s arm behind her. Not a good start….Yah…not good. I ambled out of the room and a nurse came up to me and asked me what I needed, and I explained I needed to find a bathroom. Much to my dismay, the closest bathroom was being occupied by a patient who had gotten sick, and the nurse told me the next bathroom was located down a long hall and then after a left turn, halfway down the next hallway. It seemed really far away to me.

It was then that my Norwegian logic perked up and I thought I remembered seeing a bathroom right near the main door of the third floor offices, and it was much closer. So without consulting anyone, I walked to the door leading to the reception area and opened it to a room full of patients who were just checking in. Suddenly I realized that I had forgotten I was in my blue flowing paper peignoir and had not shall we say, “wrapped things up” on the backside. My underwear was in full cinematic view. WHOOPS!!!! 

I rushed out into the hall holding the back of my fitted paper towel to find the bathroom I thought was near….only to realize that I’d seen it on the main floor and not the floor I was on. Oh, man!!! People were getting off the elevators and when they saw me standing there with my hand behind my back striking a hopeless stare…I knew that they were thinking this is an escapee from somewhere and they should just stay out of his way. One lady who was bent over as she walked out of the elevator with her cane, took one look at me, and immediately stood fully erect like someone who just got the touch of Jesus at a faith healing service. Bam…she was outta there. 

Unsuccessful, I went back into the reception area, but now it looked like a room full of patients with Graves disease with their eyes all bugged out and everything. By this time the the only thing missing for the receptionists and some staff members was popcorn and a coke. Oh yah, I was the main reluctant attraction and I hadn’t even made it to the bathroom yet. Man…I had to go…BAD!!!! 

I went back into the examination area, ran down the hall, made the left turn and finally found relief. That was a close call. I went to wash my hands, and accidentally spilled water on my gown in the most unfortunate area. Now I’m puling my gown up and blowing on the water spot and a man walks in with my gown lifted up and puffing away. He immediately retreats out of the bathroom like he’s just met Master Flasher. I’m beyond exasperated and I no longer have any more shame left to spare.  
I made it back to the room and said to Pam…”There…that WASN’T so easy was it?” She asked me what that meant and I told her my unfolding saga. “You just don’t think before you do something, do you, Greg?” “I do sometimes.”…Pam popped back…”Yah, just not at the RIGHT times.” Just then our doctor came in and greeted us. She is a sweetheart of a doctor and very thorough. Pam went first and they talked about girl stuff and what she was noticing on Pam’s body. “Looking pretty good, girl” the doctor said…Next up Mr. Nelson.”  

Well I think she waits for me last because my stomach is shall we say, mucho bizarro, easily passing as a miniature crime scene. I have five marking scars from holes made by multiple robotic prostate and appendectomy surgeries…complete with a 4-inch “Frankenstein” scar from my recent double hernia surgery. Hey, just a glimpse of my poor tummy is at best traumatic amusement …and more akin to a Captain Crunch treasure map. There’s no fixing that. (Frankly, the thought of repairing this visual calamitywould be easily enough to throw any great plastic surgeon into a spiraling depression…. and before surgery find his support team singing “The Impossible Dream to the top of there lungs. 

WOWZER!!!!
Well, at least I’m never bored going to the dermatologist….and that’s because it’s the only doctor’s office where Pam and I receive multiple requests from the employees to “Hurry back real soon.” They must be really hard up for entertainment around there. Yeah, come to think of it, it’s the only place the entertainment ends up paying the audience. That just ain’t right. SHEESH!!!

I sat here watching the news this morning and my eyes began to burn and the tears started to come. They were showing pictures of the victims of the tragedy in Las Vegas. A lot of the victims were so young and I thought about my kids. It’s so overwhelming, this evil. Then I saw the people who responded and helped those who had been injured and needed to get to the hospital. None of them had any thoughts of themselves, but of what was happening in front of them and who needed help most. The police who ran toward the danger were once again, selfless and professional. 

Good and Evil. It’s not that we won’t have these two forces at work in our society….we will. Evil’s notion of destruction will not be deterred. We can safeguard to our hearts content, and I think that we should do everything we can to be prudent in protecting ourselves. I’m not making a statement here whether there should be more guns or no guns, so don’t get off track debating that. We can plan all day, all month, all year, all decade and all centuries on…But none can fathom what the heart of man is capable of doing….good or bad.

Each of us respond differently to how we manage and get through great difficulty. We live in a multicultural world and all of us has our own way of dealing with calamity, whether through religious beliefs, self determination or resignation..we contend in the avalanche.

On this day, we bear all manner of catastrophe. The devastation of Puerto Rico/surrounding areas, the current suffering in Las Vegas, the Harvey hurricane, California/Montana fires and their residual clean-up and restoration effort. There is the ongoing jihad with ISIS, the warmongering of North Korea the unrest in Spain among others. Our emotional and psychological plate is full. 

So what’s your point, Greg. My point is that we can’t take it all on. That is an impossible quest that even Don Quixote could not achieve. It’s the age old fable between the tortoise and the hare. It’s the reference made in the movie “What About Bob” with the scene in which Bill Murray kept repeating over and over, “Baby steps….baby steps…baby steps.”

For me… and all I can do is speak for me, I choose to set my hand to the plow and nurture every good and perfect gift that God has given me. Like the responders in these emergencies, do what I can do to the best of my ability to nurture the good in the world. Seeking justice, serving my fellow man, giving…not out of comfort.. but out of sacrifice. Being a man who listens to everyone in how to deal with the touring evil. Not having a will that demands my own way…. but a pliable, vulnerable and altruistic heart. It’s a daily day we live. It’s a daily day we conquer.

We stand in the path of a societal hurricane, and a deluge of animosity. At some point, every generation speaks the same phrase, “it has never been this bad.” The calculus of this thinking can be debated.

The looms of community, country and world opinion twill and weave threads of discord that is producing a garment of little connective warmth.  To disagree, is to invite an onslaught of venom the likes of which I have never seen. No one, no leaning is safe. Any thought or expression is in dire peril. Like a pack of wild rabid wolves.. the attack on camaraderie persists.

Amidst all the tension of disasters, wars, rumors of wars, race, immigration, politics, wages, gender, parity and health, I’m left to make a decision. Can beauty be found in the malaise? That is the question that I must answer….every day. I have a tendency to be overwhelmed by it all and it’s only the beauty around me that jars me away from the abyss. When I lose sight of it, I’m drifting, diminishing…dying.  For me, my faith bolsters my hope for resuscitation, with reminders like the one I experienced having dinner at a local restaurant with Pam the other night.

“Hi..Hi”… A little voice was speaking to me, and then a tiny hand touched my neck.  “Abby.. don’t bother the nice man.” I turned around in my booth and saw this smiling blue-eyed angel looking intently into my eyes. I said, “What’s your name?” Without missing a beat, she piped, “Abby.” I reassured her parents, “Don’t worry a bit, we have four grandchildren of our own, and your Abby reminds us of them. We like being reminded.” Any mention of kids and my wife unholsters pictures faster than Wyatt Earp could  shooting it out at the OK Corral. She showed Abby, and her mom and dad, a picture of our grandchildre, then a brief but sweet conversation ensued. In that short span, God was encouraging me.  This  two- year old’s innocence was giving me a quiet hope, and making me realize there is beauty everywhere if I look….I just need to look.

“Everything that is beautiful and fair and lovely is made for the eye who sees.”. (Rumi)

I have a wonderful brother. He’s been my brother my whole life because he’s two years older than I am. (That’s a little Norwegian math for you right there)

Corliss (I call him Chummie) is much different than me and my sister, Sigrid (I call her Susie). He’s much quieter and holds his feelings in somewhat. Sigrid and I are very effusive and there is no laundry in the laundry bag of feelings and emotions. We all have one thing in common. We live in our own little idea worlds, totally oblivious to what’s going on around us. Remembering stuff is not one of our strong suits. This was borne out one fall day growing up in North Dakota.

Everyday we took my sister to Hughes Junior High which was about 11 blocks away from Bismarck High School, where my brother and I attended. We had a little brown Renault car. We didn’t know how to pronounce the word the way you were supposed to, you know like how the French would. We pronounced it like it rhymes with the word vault. We’d have to occasionally start the car by inserting a crank at the front of the car, and crank it up. As we did this, the car would begin to shudder, then start. Suddenly, the crank would reverse in the opposite direction…almost ripping your wrist off. Ah, sweet days of automotive opulence and sophistication.

We dropped Sigrid off at school and continued down Avenue D which was a straight shot to the high school. However, this fine day our car started to judder, cough and subsequently gave up the ghost about a block away from where we’d dropped my sister off. The Renault was smoking and fuming, so we just pushed it around the corner and parked it on the street there. From there we walked all the way to the high school that morning. When we got out of school that afternoon, I met Chummie at the parking lot. “Where’d you park the car?” My brother was befuddled because he couldn’t remember where he’d parked. Now you can’t possibly think that I would remember where we parked. That would be asking way too much of this ADHD “idiot savant”…without the savant part. We both looked and looked for the car, but to no avail, so we just walked home. We were sitting around the dinner table that evening and my dad ask, “where is your car? I kinda look down at my plate because I didn’t want to answer… then turned to my brother. He had this bewildered look on his face and said, “I think we lost it.” My dad, who was of course incredulous at this report,  used one of his favorite swear words again. “You lost the car you lost the COCKEYED car!!!” My mother pushed further, “Boys, how do you lose a car?” Not skipping a beat my dad blurted out, “Oh, just give them a little time and they’ll figure out a way.” He kept mumbling to himself…”they lost the cockeyed car…. they lost the cockeyed car.” Chummie and I had that effect on our parents…..often times they just ended up talking to themselves…Bless their hearts.

I think my brother and I got into one fight the entire time we we’re growing up. This is a man I revere and look up to. He is amazingly talented and is the kind of person that does not call attention to himself.  I talk about our exploits in my book, “Runaway Horse.” In high school, he played violin in the orchestra, bassoon in band and was a soloist in the concert choir as well as lead in the high school musicals.   He’s played in a number of bands and after a stint in the Air Force began writing and producing jingles. He was the first artist on Motown’s “Natural Resources” label in the seventies. Later, he moved to Nashville and produced records for time, and now holds a masters degrees in an area related to social services and counseling.  He is a fine guitar player, violinist and singer, but his creative woodworking as a luthier and furniture maker is something to behold. Probably my most treasured possession is a pre World War I German made cello that my father bought for me in high school. This instrument was damaged in a move we made to another house. My brother took the broken instrument and spent two years learning how to repair a cello and then brought this instrument back to life. I was in tears at his presentation to me. He’s built violins, and plays them when we get together. He found another old cello, repaired it and started practicing until he had memorized and could play the first of the Bach Six Suites. He is an amazing treasure to me.

Chummie has endured polio as a child, a heart attack….and the greatest travail of his family was the loss of their youngest daughter and sister, Holly. She lost her life in a boating accident at the age of 25….and a part of our hearts went missing that day as well. I can hardly type this part. The waves of grief our entire family feel to this day are unrelenting. You just wake up from time to time in the middle of the night… or in the middle of your day…-and  the  remembrance and beauty of this precious girl comes pouring over you in a flood of emotion. I look up to the sky and say something like..” Hey Holly girl…I sure am missing you right now. Things are manageable here, but I can hardly wait to see you. Hold down the fort until we all get there, okay. Cheers!!!” I think about my times with her for a moment and then move on. . Funny, but after that time with her, my day just seems better. She’s always a warm presence in my heart. Stoically, and with great faith, Chummie, Donna and Holly’s sister, Serena, carry on with their lives…but assuredly, with a thread of melancholy accompanying their loving memories. I will write one day about Holly,  for there are so many amazing attributes she had in her short, but kindly action packed earthly life.

I love being with my brother. We talk music, issues of life, faith and love for each other. Nothing matches the joy we have when we pull out and play our instruments with our sister, Sigrid on the piano, singing to our hearts content. We haven’t skipped a beat since our childhood days marching around in our living room pounding on pots and pans while mother played the piano for us…sometimes singing to us. I am unable to express the joy that making music together brings us…cuz there aren’t descriptive words to match the feeling. I have always looked up to Chummie as the leader of the Nelson siblings, and as you can tell…it’s not hard to see why. He is and always will be …my big brother.

 

Why is it that some men find it difficult to admit a mistake or be so reticent to apologize? One of the things I have a great problem with is misreading my wife’s expressions. I have a quick reaction if I think my wife is dismissing me. Most times she’s completely innocent and my strong response hurts her feelings. Even if she isn’t innocent (she’s allowed) and I don’t need to raise my voice. I know at the core it’s a combination of ego, insecurity and anger. That’s a terrible mix.

I don’t display that with anyone else, often showing more deference to others around me than her. It is one of my many character flaws. I try to ask her forgiveness but she doesn’t think I’m really sincere, she’s heard it too often. In her mind, if I was seriously remorseful, it wouldn’t ever happen again…but it does….and she’s right. It’s totally embarrassing to me that I would be so unkind to someone so precious to me. Probably few have to deal with this, but this is my thorn in the flesh. We get along famously when it’s just the two of us…but if anyone else is in the mix, our mojo is disrupted and this is when the situation is more prone to occur.

Pam works with me on this and many other situations on a daily basis. Some of these peccadillos are sorta funny.

“I’m home…Greg….I’m home..” Pam comes into the house after two hours of running errands. I walk in the kitchen to greet her. “You get everything done you needed”, I ask. She replies “Not all, but enough for today. You take out the pork chops?” Responding redundantly I query, “Did you say, pork chops?. “Yeah honey, I asked you to take out the pork chops for dinner, remember?” “No, you didn’t ask me to take out the pork chops”. She answers,“I most certainly did”. “Whoa, Nelly…You didn’t ask me to take out the pork chops” is my emphatic reply. She continues, “Oh brother, let me get out of these clothes and then we’ll talk.”
She comes back a few minutes later and the conversation blossoms. “Greg, remember when you ask me if I needed you to do something for me while I was gone, and I thanked you and said to take out the pork chops so they could thaw out?” My rambling response begins. “No, I don’t remember because you didn’t ask me. You might think that you asked me…but you didn’t ask me…maybe you thought you asked me….maybe you asked someone else…but you sure didn’t ask me, I’m positive.”

“Well, Mr Positive, let’s review.” You do remember telling me you’d do something for me, which I must say I thought was a very nice gesture on your part.…you do remember that, right?” “Yes, I do remember that part…the good gesture part”. “Good, now we’re getting somewhere. Let me ask you this, Greg. What is the next thing I said to you after you asked me if I needed anything?” Scratching my head as the memory of her request sinuously begins to come into focus…..”Well…uh…You might of said something kinda like that but I think maybe I blacked out or something”…”No, Greg….People who drink too much alcohol black out…so you didn’t black out…and if you say you felt faint or something lame like that…I’m gonna have to restrain myself!!!
Sheesh, honey, why are you getting all Perry Mason on me like this?” “Honey..honey…It’s okay…just tell me you forgot, that’s all I need to hear. I forgot the pork chops….go ahead now….say it…I forgot the pork chops. See how easy it comes out of my mouth. Now why don’t you try it…go on….say it…it won’t hurt”….So I mutter with a restrained grin, “Oh, man….Okay…I forgot the STINKIN pork chops. Then Pam smiles, pats me on the back and says…”Now go get the pork chops. Case closed.

I’m a pretty freewheeling guy and often times I say anything that comes to mind. I quite enjoy the freedom that spontaneity gives me. Being an effusive reactionary, I sometimes find myself saying things too quickly or hurtful, and not worthy to come from my mouth…you know…cursory and not thought through. Sadly, I dismiss them without a thought or spin the damage by saying that it’s just the way I am… and without apology…move on. In this mode I’m a real danger to myself…. not fully realizing in the moment the penetrating consequence of this nonchalant notion. I exist in the actuation of words and feelings I’ve given myself permission to entertain. Simply put…I live in the thoughts I allow. Slowly, over time…as if on auto pilot… an insidious gravitational pull surreptitiously cheers on this  subconscious “des ordures” as it creeps deeper and deeper into my psyche, leisurely bubbling in my soul. All of a sudden I say or think something and ask, “Where did that come from? Why did I say or think that, or act out in that way”. Like well aged cheese or wine…those earlier, once thoughtless musings or words come roaring back more powerfully than before. I thought they weren’t there but now realize they’re a grown up sepsis that was merely incubating for a time….and all this a result of my once casual notorization. The tongue is a fire in a controlled setting… even worse when it’s given unrestrained swath.

“Out of the treasure of the heart, the mouth speaks.”