There are good days, difficult days, ones of expectation and those that speak uncertainty. Everyday I’m so grateful to God for the mercy of a new day…But on those “ I don’t understand” days, I need to be reminded again of Isaiah 55:8-9.

““For My thoughts are not your thoughts, Nor are your ways My ways,” declares the LORD. “For as the heavens are higher than the earth, So are My ways higher than your ways And My thoughts than your thoughts.”

I woke up this morning feeling somewhat downcast. I‘ve had medical testing, doctor visits and still dealing with those suffering from the upheaval of recent tornadoes here in Nashville. That was enough for concern, but now the isolation of family in this present pandemic seems a little much, and I have questions. So God has His way of answering me in ways I can best understand. Simply, clearly and with music.

One of the great joys in my career, was to produce a recording with artist/songwriter, Richard Smallwood. He’s a fabulous pianist, consummate musician and steeped in classical understanding. He has adroitly married the soulful expression of black gospel music with a classical leaning. He took this chronically white, boy from North Dakota, into his world, a culture in which I had no footing. I am so very thankful for his friendship.

I was listening to his music this morning, As he sang, I wept at the song’s beauty and truth, and I felt that God was near.

Today as I was writing with my buddy, Bob Farrell, I snapped this shot of him in my writing room…We were brainstorming an idea,….and just for a moment I was caught in a rush of emotion…mindful of his great impact on my life.

We have written together for decades, but it is not the writing that is the most enduring. Bob and his wife, Jayne are from the South Pole of the contiguous…Texas cured. We’ve lived life together, know each other’s children and grandchildren, their names and what they’re doing. We’ve suffered together. Bob and Jayne lost their home in the Nashville flooding some years back; we have both been nigh unto death and sat at each other’s bedsides. We’ve heard our music performed by people all over the world. We’ve had our disagreements and wrangled over ideas…but it was this willingness to be uncomfortable and walk together in the refining fire, that brought a lyric or piece of music to a place of beauty and great imagery. We’ve written some good songs and our share of less than good. Of course, at the time we were writing these alleged gems, they all seemed brilliant…that is until we listened to them a short time later and wondered what in the world we were possibly thinking just days earlier.

The preponderance of my writing efforts have come in three distinct periods, with three specific compatriots. The first was with Phill McHugh that began in my recording days in North Dakota and then again in my early years in Nashville. Phill was born into an Irish Catholic farm family near Aberdeen, South Dakota. He was commonly hip, politically aware and viewed life from a vantage point that was different than mine. We were on the same page spiritually, but how we arrived at our conclusions came in different ways. I first met him when he came to my studio in Bismarck to record an album. We bonded in that experience and when he recorded his second album…”Canvas For The Sun’, it was picked up by Lamb and Lion records which was distributed by Sparrow Records headed by Billy Ray Hearn, ultimately leading to my move to Los Angeles and subsequently, Nashville.

Just a short time after we made the move to Tennessee, Phill moved with his family as well. This was very important to us both at the time because we had history together and could trust each other’s instincts. This is so chemically important in a writing relationship.

Pam and I were close to him and his wife then, Dorsey. We watched our children grow, got together many times, laughed and made music…Good times they were. Phill has a poet’s heart and his thoughts come out like that. His imagery and theater is stunning. I’m not sure how, but we sort of drifted away from each other after a few years in Nashville…but we did. It makes me sad, because I love this family very much. Dorsey is an unbelievable painter, artist in her own right. You should check out Dorsey McHugh Fine Art.

The last person with whom I would spend a period of creative years was Paul Marino. I met Paul through a friend who I was involved with in the beginnings of Young Life in my hometown. Paul was in a group called; “River” and I produced a couple of albums with them. He was from St. Paul at the time and later, made the move to Nashville with his wife Karolyn. We loved each other from our recording days together, but when he moved here, we became fast friends….like family.

Paul knows all of my personal ins and outs and has helped immeasurably with getting me out of old songwriting habits. He’s funny as funny can be. A couple of days ago we went to a fund raising dinner for a work in the Ukraine that rescues children from poor living conditions in orphanages there. As we sat listening, Paul leaned over to me and said out of the clear blue…”You know….mediocrity has come a long long way”…and then focused back on the speaker, acting as if nothing happened. (He was not referring to the presentation). Paul is also the king of the misnomer….saying things like ..”Boy…I’d like to be a mouse on the wall when they’re talking”. We can pun back and forth for days. It’s these little things I love about him as well.

These men and their families are precious treasures in my life. When you write anything…the most powerful words and music come from those people and events that move you at a high emotional place….from what you live…from what you believe…and what God has given you to say. And for that…. I’m grateful…grateful…grateful, for the blessings of these three families in my life.

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 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 proven 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 crank start the car by inserting a crank positioned 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 we walked out together. I asked my brother, “Where’d you park the car?” My brother was preferable because he couldn’t remember where we 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 looked and looked for the car and couldn’t figure it out, so we just walked home. We were sitting around the table dinner table that evening and my dad ask, “where is your car we looked and looked for the car and couldn’t figure it out, so we just walked home. We were sitting around the dinner table that evening and my dad asked, “Where is your car?” I can look down at my plate because I didn’t want to answer and I kind of looked over to my brother and he had this bewildered look on his face and said, “I think we lost it.” My dad who was of course naturally incredulous at Chummie’s report used one of his favorite swear words again. “You lost the car you lost the COCKEYED car!!!” My mother grew read 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 to do it”. He kept mumbling to himself…”they lost the cockeyed car …they lost the cockeyed car.”

Lets review my dad’s names for us in his famous “Hall of Unmitigated Scorn”
YOU BIRDS

Now there were three uses of this term.

1. Imploring us to get up at 7:30 on Saturday morning to do chores. “Okay, YOU BIRDS…time to get up.
2. This references his frustration with us as in, “ YOU BIRDS better settle down.
3. Asking for something other than what was prepared and on the table. “Listen, YOU BIRDS…This ain’t no short order joint.”

BOZOS (A higher level of threat, with a more ominous and a far more certain impending “apocalyptic “quality portending no good outcome.

Again there were two uses.

1. Referencing something we should have done that we didn’t.
You BOZOS better get that lawn mowed….and I mean right now!!!”
2. If we said something disrespectful. “Listen, BOZO, You better change your smart mouth, or I’ll give you a different sorta smart to cure that for you.”
3. If we had crossed the line..that clear but unspoken line. Listen up you two BOZOS…Get in the car. (“Get in the car” was code for total annihilation of any opportunity for fun and was accompanied with the knowledge that your body would in some way not feel the same as it had just minutes before. )

Any use of COCKEYED

This clearly represented unmitigated frustration at the highest levels of despondency. It did not imply punishment or an impending edict by the parental court….but when dad pulled that word out of his vocabulary it was the sort of thing that gave you a nervous twitching and sense of a downward spiral in the swagger of our familial mojo. We all knew what he was doing. He was swearing in his own way….you know…letting loose all his frustration. It was weird…but even though he was at a a fevered emotional level… I really felt sorry for him which brought on a brief moment of remorse… and I just wanted to comfort him.

And before any of you say anything, NO…we were not emotionally scarred in any way. My dad was loving and there was never any question in our minds that he wanted and provided for us the best way he knew how…so don’t get all psychological on me here.

I think my brother and I got into one fight in the entire time we grew up together. 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”.
Not only is he a fine musician and singer, but his creative woodworking as a luthier and furniture maker is something to behold. Probably my most treasured possession is the cello that my father bought for me in high school. This instrument was damaged in a move 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 got another old cello, repaired it and started practicing until he 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. I can hardly type this part. The waves of grief our entire family feel to this day are relenting. You just wake up from time to time or in the middle of your day…the remembrance and beauty of this precious girl coming 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’t 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 in my day. Funny, but after that time with her, my days have turned out really good. 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 I’m sure, 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 life.

I love being with my brother. We talk music, issues of life and love for each other. Nothing matches the joy we have when we pull out our instruments with our sister, Sigrid on the piano singing to our hearts content. We haven’t skipped a beat since marching around in our living room pounding on pots and pans as are mother played the piano for us…sometines singing to us. I am unable to express the joy that brings to 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.


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 I 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 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 and the Harvey, California/Montana fire 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.

what kindly heart the subtle boast
I purpose to portray
but somewhere past beyond reproach
the truth in me remains

for hidden in the soul beneath
my darker nature yields
a self inflicted animus
I carefully conceal

it keeps the faith there’s evil fare
much greater than my own
and tells me what I love to hear
I’m not as bad somehow

some things in me will never change
to keep my pride alive
trusting this as mortals will
the myth of lesser crimes

A poem by Greg Nelson
© 2020 by Poppie’s Hallel (BMI. Admin. by Amplified Administration)

Most of you probably don’t recognize the name, though a few of you do. His name was Roy Houston. In the 1980s and 90s, Pam and I went to church with him and his wife, Margaret,. He sang in the choir, but I never sat next to him. He seemed quiet but always there and serving.

I learned a great life lesson from him, and I thought of it as I read of his passing at the age of 87. Margaret, had what I think was a brain tumor and he was left to care for her for a number of years. He brought her to church each Sunday and pushed her around in a wheelchair with her hair so beautifully done and always a lovely dress. I watched him…this unknowing teacher. I heard of this unbelievable attentiveness to her every need as a caretaker, living out this well worn vow:
“to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”

I was young in my marriage to Pam, and was struck by his perseverance through difficulty…out of real devotion, for it must’ve been very hard for him, but he did it because he loved her… deeply…and remembered his promise to her. So when I hear love spoken of…this is what comes to my mind in these late years. It is the stuff of real romance. For what then is romance, if his love was not it’s very definition. Chivalrous, an extravagant story with emotional attraction of heroic proportions.

They say that Roy had a lovely singing voice. I never heard him, but in it’s own way, his marriage, like a song, sang loudly to me. This was not a man with a lineage of position or power, but a life that was one well lived.

In these days and hours. It gives me pause to ponder his life, and also makes me think that I wish there was less quoting of great individuals..and more living like them.

So rest well buddy… and thanks for the gift you never knew you gave.