Unsuitable for framing

(Content warning:  Contains mention of death by suicide.)

The last photo Max Ray ever posted on Facebook is good enough to be framed.

It's a photo of a tree, probably an oak, standing majestically with leaves on its branches. 

The tree stands on the bank of a peaceful lake, in the middle of a meadow of the green grass of spring. 

A grove of trees graces the opposite lake shore.  If you go there in the fall, you will probably see the colors explode with shades of scarlet, gold, vermillion, and other fall colors. 

Max Ray photographed that beautiful scene and posted it on Facebook with the words, "This is the beautiful lake where I will within a few minutes have done the deed." 

I don't know if Max read any of the responses to his post.  

Because right after he took that photograph, he took his life. 

Max, according to the author's blurb about his book A Better Way, "considers himself a retired country preacher having ministered the gospel for better than half a century. He graduated in 1957 from Freed-Hardman University and has lived the past years in Kentucky . . . His humble demeanor has endeared him to many throughout the world. His love of truth moves him to be a champion of simple New Testament Christianity."

I did not know Max, never had the pleasure of reading his Facebook page until after his death, never listened to a sermon preached by him. 

Why, then, is his death on my mind?  Why is his death worthy of a blog post from someone who didn't know him and who he didn't know?

I think Patrick Mead, another Church of Christ preacher, summed it up when he said that Max was "my second friend to take his life this month." 

In skimming the Facebook comments about Max, one friend of his said that he and Max suffered from the same form of depression. I mentioned that I, too, dealt with depression; he responded with, they both suffered from dysthymia, also known as "persistent depressive disorder". (I think Naomi Judd had this also.)  It's almost like the chemicals in the brain that cause depression mutate, making depression harder to treat. 

His family and friends are going through the craziness of grief, asking the questions, why did he do it? Didn't he know how much we loved him? Didn't he understand just how much he'd given to his fellow Christians? We need men like him. Especially now. So why did he do it? Did he just give up? Did he give in to the lies of Satan? Did he forget God? Why did you do it, Max? Why? 

Only Max can answer those questions, and he isn't here to do so. 

We expect so much from our men (and now women) of the cloth. I've confided in my own preacher several times and he's always graciously given me his time and wisdom. I also know that he has his own struggles caring for his church and for his own family. COVID has made things worse. It's doubled, maybe tripled, the burden so many of them carry. Between COVID and the current racial/political strife in our country, nearly every church has had major turmoil. People leave because the preacher is too "woke", or if he's "too harsh". 

Where does this leave the Max Rays, who only wanted to preach the gospel of Christ and was also crippled by a disease many just don't understand? It's fine to say,  "Please, get help," and if you're reading this, I encourage you to do so (you can now just dial 988 for the mental health hotline). But there's also waiting lists, counselors that are unavailable, health insurance that may or may not cover needed treatment . . . and let's face it, the way we talk about mental illness in this country is shameful. The mentally ill are shamed, villified, and too often treated like they are just weak.

My guess is that Max Ray was not a weak man. He sounds like a man who loved God . . . and who found depression to eventually be insurmountable. 

If you look at the last picture he took, you can almost hear a gentle breeze blowing through the leaves of the oak tree and ruffling the surface of the lake. You can imagine the small waves lapping at the shore. 

But a black illness in Max Ray's brain caused him to "do the deed."

And now, that picture, in my mind, will never be suitable for framing.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

(P.S. -- If you're dealing with depression -- especially if you work with people and deal with depression yourself -- dial 988. Reach out to a friend.  Or better yet, friends, reach out to them. We often don't know what our physical and spiritual families are dealing with .)

It may have been a cop

On July 26, 2022, at 9:40 p.m., 16-year-old Susana Morales of Norcross, Georgia, texted her mother and told her she was on her way home from a friend's house.

She never made it. 

An app on her cell phone showed she was walking in that direction between 10:07 and 10:21. It's possible, though, she may have gotten into a vehicle. 

Her phone gave her location until 10:26 p.m., at which point it either died or was turned off. 

For the next six months, Susana's parents waited for some word from their daughter, that she was alive, that she was coming home or wanted to come home. 

The neighborhood put up "missing" posters, and a persistent poster on the app Nextdoor kept posting about Susana. The poster also criticized the lack of action of the Gwinnett County Police Department, who apparently considered Susana a runaway.

On February 6th, 2023, someone called the police saying they believed they'd seen human remains in the woods. 

It turned out to be Susana's body.

Learning that a beloved daughter is dead is bad enough. 

What happened next borders on the horrific.

On February 13th, a 22-year- old cop who lived in Susana's neighborhood -- and whom people knew, a person who played ball with the kids in their apartment complex -- was arrested and charged with filing a false police report and concealing a body. 

He worked for the Doraville police department (located in neighboring DeKalb County, GA) and, upon his arrest, he was immediately terminated. 

Read that again:  A cop -- a policeman -- a law enforcement officer -- a person we are supposed to trust to uphold the law, was arrested on charges of concealing a body and filing a false police report. 

His name is Miles Bryant and he'd worked for the Doraville police department for two years. 

He has not been charged with her murder. 

I live only a few miles from where Susana disappeared. It is scary to think that such a man, knowing that her parents and family and friends would want to know where she was and what happened to her, allegedly deliberately chose to hide her body and keep his mouth shut about it. 

Since he has not been charged with her murder, I wonder if Bryant had an accomplice, if indeed he was involved in her death. 

I admit, I wondered if Susana might have been a runaway. It's too easy to think that a teenager who disappears has just run away from home. 

Now we will never know from her whether she went with someone willingly or if she was taken by force. 

I was going to write, "I am appalled." But I think the proper phrase is, "I am angry." I am angry that a person who swore to uphold the law allegedly violated it in such a horrific way. 

The woman on Nextdoor who kept posting about Susan, reminding us that "she's still missing," is angry because, in her opinion, the Gwinnett County Police Department didn't take Susana's case seriously enough. Perhaps she would have been found sooner if Gwinnett County had treated her disappearance as foul play and not simply as a runaway teenager. Or, if nothing else, maybe her body would have been found sooner and her family would not have suffered for so many months not knowing what happened to her. 

Instead, we find a decomposing body.

And we have a police officer implicated in her death. 

I'm one of those who wants to say, "not all cops", but that is cold comfort to the Morales family, or the too-long list of families who have been mistreated or just not taken seriously by the police.  I'd be angry, too, if I thought my child was missing, not just a runaway, and the police gave me the, "Are you sure he/she didn't just run away?" I know that police have to consider all possibilities, and that there are teenagers who run away . . . but some teenagers do get abducted and murdered. 

The Nextdoor poster also said, "no wonder Susana's posters kept getting ripped down. He (Bryant) lived in Norcross!" She suspects that Susana's "missing person" posters were deliberately being removed.

I don't know if that's true.  

But I do know that a young woman was missing for six months. 

And now she is dead.

And a man sworn to uphold the law is implicated in her death.

I don't know about you, but it is terrifying to think that someone who wears a badge can even think of being involved in committing such a crime. 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

The days the music died

For Don McLean, it was February 3, 1959.

For me, it was January 23, 1978.

For my friend Kenny Davis, it was February 4, 2016.

For all of us, those were "the days the music died," because it was the day that a musician/musicians that had had a profound impact on our lives died. 

February 3, 1959 - Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, JP "The Big Bopper" Richardson.

There's not much that I can say that hasn't already been said about Don McLean's magnum opus "American Pie," eight minutes and 42 seconds of music and lyrics possibly alluding to the Vietnam War, the Kennedy assassination, musical acts of the 1960's, and other events, always circling back to the phrase, "the day the music died". 

While folding newspapers for his paper route on February 4th, a 13-year-old McLean read of a crash of a Beechcraft Bonanza plane not far from Clear Lake, Iowa.  Four people died, the pilot, Roger Peterson, and three names that hit McLean hard:  22-year-old Buddy Holly, 17-year-old Ritchie Valens, and 28-year-old JP Richardson, known by his stage name of "The Big Bopper".

Already, by the time of his death, Holly had established himself as a pioneer of the music we know as rock and roll. Bob Dylan and the Beatles both cite him as a major musical influence. If you've heard "Peggy Sue", "That'll Be the Day", "Oh, Boy!", or other Holly songs, you may hear a raw, restless energy that defined the early days of rock and roll. 

Richardson had just hit the airways with "Chantilly Lace," with its distinctive, "Hel-loo, baaby!" beginning. 

Valens, though only 17, had "Come On, Let's Go", ""Donna," (written for his real-life girlfriend), and "La Bamba" to his credit. 

As Don McLean would later write, something touched him deep inside. 

I don't know if he originated the phrase "the day the music died", but "American Pie" keeps coming back to that phrase, as if all of history hinged on that fatal night in an Iowa cornfield, or at least, all of musical history. 

And perhaps it did.  Because who knows what else Buddy Holly would have created, what other hits would have flowed from JP Richardson, what contributions Ritchie Valens would have made, what songs we'd be singing/humming/karaoking to today if they had not died. When someone dies with what seems to be unfulfilled potential, the question "what if?" always lingers in the air.

McLean, in a interview posted at loudersound.com, described "American Pie" as a song "about an America that was coming apart at the seams." And in the late '60's - early '70's, with the US neck-deep in Vietnam and social mores everywhere being questioned, he was probably right. 

About his lyrics, he said, "There are many interpretations of my lyrics, but none by me.  It was really funny to me that after the song became famous, people started becoming so interested in the lyrics. I was trying to write about America, not Elvis or The Beatles. They were missing the point, really, by trying to say who's this and who's that in the song."

Today, February 3, 2023, is the 64th anniversary of that fatal plane crash that killed three musicians and their music with them. 

Don McLean is now 77, and on the day he dies; on the day his music dies, the headline will probably read, "'American Pie' composer dies." Whatever his lyrics ultimately mean, they all lead back to the unfulfilled dreams of three talented men.

January 23, 1978 - Terry Kath

On Tuesday morning, January 24, 1978, around 5:30 a.m., I lay under the covers in a dark bedroom in St. Petersburg, Florida.  I suspect that the sounds of my sister getting ready for school woke me up. We had double sessions at our high school; she was a senior going in the morning and I was a freshman going in the afternoon. 

So I turned on my bedroom radio, tuned to Y95, WYNF, Tampa/St. Petersburg, Florida. They had a news broadcast at the top and bottom of the hour and I just happened to catch the bottom of the hour news. 

I don't remember the day's headlines. I do remember that there was a commercial break, and when the break was over, the person reading the news began with their next story.

"One of the members of the group Chicago --"

Oh, cool, Chicago, my favorite group!  I anticipated the next part of the story with a smile.

"-- has accidentally killed himself."

NO!

"Thirty-one-year-old -- "

I hit the knob that changed the station. I thought, "Not Terry. Not Peter. Not Bobby.  Please!" 

I didn't want to know. And yet I had to know. 

So I turned the dial down to Q105, another pop/rock station in Tampa/St. Petersburg. I knew they had news on at 45 minutes to the hour, and this time, I was not going to change the dial. 

I heard the story . . . and realized, "It was Terry."

The 31-year-old Terry Kath was the lead guitarist of the rock group Chicago. His is the soulful roar you hear on "Introduction," the lead-off song on "Chicago Transit Authority," the first album put out by the original six members of Chicago. It's also the soothing vocal you hear on "Colour My World," from Chicago's second album. His fingers play the opening riff of "25 or 6 to 4" and, in a 1971 concert at Boston's Tanglewood Music Center, delivered a blistering mid-song guitar solo where he did everything except destroy the guitar. (My son's nonchalant response to that performance was, "Boy, that band sure was loud.")

I was 14 years old.  And I was devastated. 

One of my childhood daydreams was to be part of a rock band who solved mysteries. Anyone who watched Josie and the Pussycats in the early 1970's will know where that daydream came from. As years went by, my imagination developed, and after seeing a 1974 TV special starring Chicago titled, "Chicago: Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch", I incorporated "singing in a rock band and meeting Chicago" into my daydreams. Every time I went to the library, I checked the magazine index to see if there was anything new about Chicago. 

So Terry's death dealt a blow to one of my vivid daydreams. 

I told no one how I felt. I kept a diary during that time and couldn't even write there, "One of my favorite musicians died." These days, I look back on that teenager and I want to hug her and tell her, "I'm so sorry he died."

As an adult, I've learned more about Kath's final, troubled months, his problems with drugs, and finally, his death. He accidentally shot himself with a gun he didn't think was loaded. According to this article from Premier Guitar, Kath had a collection of guns and on the evening of January 23, 1978, began playing around with his collection. Don Johnson, one of Chicago's keyboard technicians, warned him about playing with his weapons. Kath held up a gun and asked, "What do you think I'm going to do? Blow my brains out?" He swung the gun near his head.  While the clip was not in the gun, there was a bullet left in the chamber. I don't know if he deliberately pulled the trigger or not, but somehow, the gun fired. That single bullet killed the person called "the heart and soul of Chicago."

While the band -- to their credit -- kept going, many fans believe that Chicago was never the same after Terry Kath's death. 

Terry left behind a wife, Camilla, and a baby daughter, Michelle. In 2017, a grown-up Michelle Kath Sinclair released a documentary, "Chicago: The Terry Kath Experience," in which the participants spoke of her father and his musical brilliance. 

The original members of Chicago were inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2016. Michelle, in honor of the father she didn't remember and the musician she learned about, accepted Terry's award on his behalf.

As for me, I've long since given up my daydream of singing with a rock and roll band and touring with Chicago. And I am no longer devastated by the loss of Terry Kath, just sad that drugs and carelessness robbed us of a great, gifted man of music. 

And I can look back on a time when I heard his voice on the radio, or on a record, and it -- to borrow a title of an early Chicago hit -- made me smile.

February 4, 2016 - Maurice White

Every year on September 21, my Facebook friend and fellow blogger Kenny Davis celebrates Earth, Wind and Fire day, in honor of the legendary 1970's rock/R&B group. He chose September 21st because of the opening line of the song, "September," (Do you remember / The 21st night of September?")  

Kenny is a connoisseur of good music, good cooking, Black culture, and photography, the last because he is a professional photographer. 

When on February 4, 2016, he received a barrage of texts asking, "Is it true about Maurice White?" he realized that, as much as he might want to deny it, the 74-year-old White was dead. 

He went home in silence. He reached home, went upstairs, and then texted his wife. "Maurice White died. I don't want to be bothered."

His wife understood, and for the next four to five hours, allowed Kenny to grieve the man he knew as "his musical father." 

Unlike Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, JP Richardson, and Terry Kath, Maurice White died of natural causes, a battle with Parkinson's disease.   

In doing some quick and dirty research, I'm embarrassed to learn that not only was Maurice White, along with Philip Bailey, one of the talented voices of Earth, Wind and Fire, he produced artists such as Barbra Streisand, The Emotions, Denise Williams, Neil Diamond, jazz artist Ramsey Lewis (who White also performed with early in his career) and a host of others. Behind the flamboyant outfits lay a mind that not only could compose and sing and make his own band sound excellent, but who could also listen to other artists and make them sound excellent as well. He gave a great deal to the music world, and received the adulation and appreciation of fans and peers.  

Earth, Wind and Fire's website explains how the band got its name:  earth, wind, and fire are the three elements in Maurice White's astrological chart. (I can no longer remember the sitcom -- it may have been the '70's version of One Day At a Time -- but when a character opened her front door to a person dressed in a colorful, theatrical outfit similar to ones Maurice White wore, she questioned, "Are you Earth, Wind, or Fire?")

Like Kenny, I grew up hearing Earth, Wind and Fire (I owned the album "Greatest Hits, Vol. I). Their music ranged from the contemplative, "That's The Way of the World," to the optimistic "Shining Star", to the explosive "Getaway", and the upbeat, wonderful "September". "September", in 2018, was added to the Library of Congress' National Recording Registry, a list of sound recordings considered "culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant". 

And like Chicago did with me, like Buddy Holly did with Don McLean, something in the music of Maurice White and Earth, Wind, and Fire grabbed hold of Kenny.  So much so that when Maurice died, Kenny could grieve a man he never met but who had influenced his life.  

Kenny, in his blog entry celebrating Maurice White, wrote, " . . . I'd be lying if I said this day doesn't hurt and hurt deep.  On this day, I lost the friend I've known all of my life, but never embraced.  Never spoke to.  Never got a chance to say 'Thank you'."

Tomorrow, February 4, 2023, will mark seven years since Kenny looked at his phone and learned that Maurice White was gone. 

How many of us, like Kenny, see our favorite musician as friends we've known all our lives but never got a chance to speak to them and say "thank you"? Thank you for the music. Thank you for the memories it brings. Thank you for being part of the soundtrack of my life. Thank you for helping me process grief, joy, anger, and other emotions. Thank you for helping to celebrate my wedding, the births of my children, the times with my family and my friends. 

Maybe that's why Don McLean and others look at the loss of Buddy Holly, JP Richardson, and Ritchie Valens as "the day the music died."

It's definitely why Kenny Davis and myself can be devastated at the loss of a Maurice White and a Terry Kath.

For us, these were the days the music died.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Drink this, it's good for you!

I have become fascinated lately with the subject of multi-level marketing.  Specifically, posts and videos made against it.  Right now, I don't have the time and the energy to completely explain why, because it's getting close to my bedtime. I'll just say that the more I listen to and read about MLMs, the more they sound like religious cults.  

If you want examples of multi-level marketing, groups where 1) you sell products and 2) get other people to sell products (with you getting a portion of what the other person earns), you are probably participating in multi-level marketing.  Think Amway, Mary Kay, Herbalife.  

Over on the social media site Reddit, I follow a sub-Reddit called r/antiMLM. Someone posted a product from the company Arbonne, a health and wellness MLM, called "Daily Green Gut Glow". 

The drink pictured on the post describes the "greens" as "36 rainbow fruits and veggies including spiralina and chlorella, phytonutrients, fiber and antioxidants." The "gut" is "pro and prebiotic blend digestive enzymes and ginger, aka de-bloat." The "glow" is "collagen builder with hyaluronic acid, sea buckthorn extract and Vitamin C." 

The title of the post I linked to is titled, "I'm supposed to want to drink this?" 

Because the photo, when I looked at it, looked like someone had dumped a bunch of pieces of coal into a glass, filled it with water mixed with coal dust, and stuck a straw into it!

The comments below the photo are snarky and hilarious (and heads up, some are r-rated.)

For example, someone said they'd misread "chlorella" as "cholera". 

Another one asked, "Anyone else here old enough to think of that song 'great green globs of greasy grimy gopher guts'?"  ("And me without my spoon!")

Someone else posted, "I'm too snarky. I'd be tempted to post back, 'Green Gut Glow sounds like a radioactive drink from the Fallout series!" (Followed underneath with "Geiger counter noise intensifies.") 

Another comment, from someone who'd just finished watching HBO's Chernobyl:  "Green gut glow sounds like what killed those first responders to that nuclear reactor explosions." 

Farther down:  "I feel like this is left over special effects gunk from 90's 'Charmed' for when the defeata demons that turn into ooze." (I'd probably add, "Maybe also Nickelodeon slime that had been improperly stored and was now covered with mold.") 

Someone described their blueberry and kale smoothie as looking like that, but at least they knew what was in it. (I've made blueberry and kale smoothies, and no, they do not look anywhere close to the picture I saw!) 

So while I appreciate the efforts of the Arbonne company to at least act like they want us to be healthy and provide us with the products to do so, I will stick with making my own smoothies, thank you.  Not buy something that may remind me of pond scum.

Oh, sorry. I did not be to be so insulting to pond scum.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation. 

Turn me inside out

Yesterday I had two incidents where the outside me did not match the inside me. 

Both of them involved a phone call and a computer. 

I noticed on my schedule yesterday that I was supposed to have a physical therapy appointment at 4 p.m. However, the PT place is very good about giving me a recorded reminder call two days in advance and I had not gotten a call.

So, I played it smart and called ahead. 

The answer I got was, no, you don't have an appointment scheduled for today. (Whew, saved myself a trip.)

Then I asked, can you check and see if I have anything else scheduled? 

This is where the outside me didn't match the inside me. 

The woman tried to check the schedule and her computer was running slow.  

VERY slow. 

In fact, it was running so slow that she said, "Can I call you back once I find the information?"

Outside, I was sympathetic. After all, it is not her fault that her system was acting up.

Inside, I was muttering to myself about "this shouldn't be taking this long!" 

Fortunately, the computer gave her the answer right before I hung up: no, I didn't have anything scheduled; yes, the PT had something tomorrow; did I want it?

I said yes, got scheduled, and hung up. (The appointment was today and I was worked hard.) 

Phone call #2 was concerning a medication that I needed.

Once again, slow computer struck again. 

And again, outside, I was sympathetic because again, it was not the woman's fault that her computer was not working properly.

Inside, I was going, "mutter mutter mutter", like Muttley from the old Wacky Races cartoon. 

After the medication situation was straightened out and I hung up, I thought, I can talk and act wonderfully on the outside. But I can complain, whine, and mutter on the inside. 

I want to get to the point where what I am saying and doing outside is a true reflection of who I am inside. Right now, I know I can talk the talk and act the act of a Christian. And while what I say and what I do as a Christian is important, I want the inside to match the outside. 

And that means, at least to me, not necessarily asking God to help me -- that I do what I can and ask God to give me the "boost" I need to put me "over the top", so to speak -- but asking God, please do in me what I can't do in and of myself. And that means an inside change, not just a change in what I say and what I do.

I'm reminded of a song we haven't sung in church in a while, "Inside Out".  Here's the chorus:

So turn me inside out
So that I can be
A reflection of the One who made me.
So the world can see
That it's Christ in me 
Lord turn me inside out
Turn me inside out.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

"Someone ______ on Tina"

(I will be using a word referring to a particular bodily function that may offend/upset some people. This will also be discussing bullying. Use appropriate self-care.)

Several years ago, I wrote about Kevin (named changed to protect his privacy) who had been a friend of mine from church and school and who, in fourth grade, made a 180 turn and became a bully. To this day, I have no idea what happened to him. 

This morning, I woke up remembering something he'd said about me and that sort of encapsulates how bullies operate and what was done about it in the 1970's. 

I think most of us are familiar with the song "Frere Jacques" (Brother John). The lyrics in French are:

Frere Jacques
Frere Jacques
Dormez-vous?
Dormez-vous?
Sonnez les matines!
Sonnez les matines!
Din, din, don.
Din, din, don.

Kevin, for whatever his reasons, would often sing the song -- during class -- as:

Frere Jacques
Frere Jacques
Dormez-vous?
Dormez-vous?
Someone peed on Tina
Someone peed on Tina
Din, din, don.
Din, din, don.

My fourth grade class had some serious discipline problems. My original teacher, Mrs. Cook, was a older, very nice lady who, among other things, taught us about the state of Florida and had a brief lesson about The Diary of Anne Frank. All I remember about that lesson is reading the lines, "Anne had only begun to write. If she had lived, her talent would have developed and grown." (In 5th grade, I started keeping a diary and have done it off and on since.) 

In the second half of the year, Mrs. Cook left because of health problems -- I cannot remember if she came back, although I think she did -- and the substitute that took her class had no idea how to discipline. She once left the room after ordering us, when I come back, I don't want to hear any talking, any meowing, or anything like that!  When she left the room, immediately the class broke into noise, and several meows.

I don't remember Mrs. Cook or the substitute saying anything to Kevin about his vulgar song against me. It could be that they did and he just didn't listen. (I wrote this entry about another fourth grade incident where I had been accused of something I didn't do, and Mrs. Cook believed me.)

Basically, bullying was tolerated. 

"So, Tina, why didn't you tell? Why didn't you say anything to a teacher or to your parents?"

Answer:  What good would it have done?

I had already been told by my parents to "ignore them" way back in the first grade. I had learned in Sunday School and church that we were to turn the other cheek and forgive our enemies. I had also been told, either directly or indirectly, that if I fought back, I would be the one who got in trouble, and the bullies would get off scot free. 

Not much has changed since 1972-1973, when I was in fourth grade. 

I'm writing this with mixed feelings. I feel angry right now about what happened. I will process that anger in what are hopefully healthy ways. Sometimes I use this blog as a sort of therapy, writing out things that happened to me in the past so that I can learn from them, and maybe show other people that, "Look, you're not alone; this happened to me as well." 

I may talk about this with my counselor, depending on when my next appointment is. Because I could have forgotten about this incident by then. I've been in therapy off and on since my 20's, and many of my sessions have led me back to childhood bullying. 

I also feel angry for, and sad for, that little girl who thought she had to put up with being bullied and that she felt like she had no one she could turn to. 

But, after several years of therapy, and being in a healthier church situation, especially, I have learned to tell myself that 99.9% of the world doesn't know who I am, and of the less than .1% who do, many of them have a "favorable opinion" of me. 

I can walk into my church and have several people say, "Hi, Tina, how are you?" and some of them really do care about the answer to that question. 

And although I can point to places where, "yes, bullying affected me here, here, and here," I'm no longer bullied. I am doing the work to come to terms with what happened.

But this morning's memory is a bit like the monkey on my back that jumps on me from time to time and tries to tell me that I deserved to be bullying, that I deserved to have Kevin tell me that "someone peed on me." Nope, no one deserves to be treated like that.

I do wonder what happened to Kevin to cause his behavior to change. I've speculated that maybe he suffered abuse and this was the way he handled it, by acting out. If I'm right, I hope he got the help he needed. 

Bullying still goes on, and too many times, nothing concrete is done. 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Killing two birds with one stone

This piece should be subtitled, “Or, if this doesn’t work, I don’t know what will!”

I have had a very long, busy day today. Not a “bad” day, just a day where I’ve had to jump from one place to another to another. According to my LifeCycle app, I spent two hours and 32 minutes on the road, and two hours and 12 minutes at the doctor’s —that was for two doctor’s appointments. I sandwiched lunch in between both appointments (pun slightly intended) and was able to come home and rest for a couple of hours before getting back in the car, driving to the church building, where I spent a little over half an hour rehearsing with our praise team before, once again, getting back in the car again and coming home. At the moment, I am in my living room, on the couch, next to a space heater. 

I occasionally sing alto on my praise team. While I am not a Madonna, a Billie Holiday, or even a Taylor Swift, I can carry a tune and I’ve learned to sing a part that I did not grow up singing (I grew up singing soprano). Before the pandemic, we had eight people on stage - two sopranos, two altos, two tenors, and two basses - and we projected the words and music up on a screen. By doing that, I could follow the notes, and by singing next to an alto, I could pretty much learn my part and keep up.

The pandemic changed that.

When we went back to meeting together and singing on stage, we were reduced from eight singers to four singers . . .and because we were also doing (and we still do) an online service, we could no longer project the words and music together. Our “music screen” for our online audience is a “picture in picture” screen, and the only thing that will fit so that they are visible are the words. 

I’m not the world’s most confident alto, and I’m afraid going to four singers brought that out. 

Fortunately, our worship leader believes in a lot of praise, encouragement, and help when needed. He’s currently attempting to get practice recordings of the music we sing in separate soprano/tenor and alto/bass tracks. We have some music already in those practice tracks; if you listen to them in stereo, one ear has the soprano/tenor and the other has the alto/bass. If you’re wearing earbuds and want to listen to your part, just put in the earbud that plays your channel and start listening. 

I’ve had trouble getting the alto part at times, and on one occasion, our worship leader asked his wife, will you sing the part while Tina records it? (His wife is a wonderful singer.) I appreciated her help and I got through the next service.  (Our worship minister once texted me that I got it right more often than not. I keep remembering that when I am feeling shaky on my singing.)

This week, the two songs we’re doing have recordings, but not separate channels for soprano/tenor and alto/bass.

We use an app called Planning Center, which helps church worship leaders with their scheduling and also contains copies of the music we’re using on a particular week. The music is loaded in a PDF file and the recordings are loaded in mp4 or whatever format they happen to be in. 

I am scheduled to sing alto on Sunday.

So, since I was going to spend what turned out to be over two hours on the road today . . . I put that time to good use.

I downloaded both songs from Planning Center to my iPhone, and played them on a loop while driving to the vein doctor’s office (legs look good but left one needs a bit of a tweak), while driving to lunch, while driving down to the urologist’s office for a look at my bladder (which included a trip through the ‘needs its own circle of Dante’s Inferno intersection’, a.k.a. I-285 and GA State Road 400), and then while driving back to the church building for rehearsal. 

The result?

Well, I think it was halfway decent singing. 

Sunday will tell!

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

(PS: If absolutely none of this makes sense, it’s because it’s nearly 9:20 p.m., I’ve been on the road and at the doc’s and at practice, and I wanted to write before bed because I’ve committed myself to writing every day. Consider this a practice run, or a draft that is so rough you can feel the bumps on it.)