VOLUME 3, CHRONICLE 3, IT’S INTIMATE: Prologue. The piece that follows (Presented in its original one big paragraph, I’m sure to the chagrin of a long time friend now on the other side of the globe. He advised me on a recent visit that there was a writing tool called a paragraph break. I listened because he’s a marvelous writer & because a good 1st baseman, whether it’s scooping up wayward throws or wayward sentence structure, takes care of the fellow at 2nd base.) was written for my 8 month old granddaughter on Easter 2021.
      Today, January 19, 2026 seems a good time to share again. This is a day that began a personal rising from both metaphorical & literal ashes, a day in the words of Albert Camus, I discovered “In the depth of winter, I learned there lay within me an invincible summer”.
     Also, today’s a day to celebrate a man & his dream. A dream so simple that over the weekend, in a southern Appalachian cabin waiting for sunrise over coffee & crayons, my once 8 month old, now 5 year old granddaughter, summed it up beautifully. Further proof why Jesus saved his best for children & whether its social civility or youth sports, grownups mess things up.
       The number of days in the story has changed from 2,997 to 4,947. An additional granddaughter has come along. Another beautiful daughter-in-law now shares my last name. Not much else is different.
      In the nearly five years since posting, my Bible has a spine that is now unraveling. Along with the reality that if my Bible is coming from together, my life is probably not, I’ve found that most good prodigal stories arrive at the point of embarkation. That wandering leads to the wonder…of home. That home, like angels, takes many forms. That your people, your tribe, those who stick with you when you crack & the paint begins to peel should be the center of life’s concentric circles.
      I’ve learned most people that use the phrase “… I’m walking through the fire…” don’t have any idea of the connotations. Either they’ve never been held to a flame or as me & Miss Julie did this day in 2013, run through them. As a side note, I don’t believe anyone walks through a fire, the night me & Miss Julie did it, our collective backsides were in turbo mode.
      In this time, I‘ve developed a philosophy that probably wouldn’t stand up to seminary scrutiny. I haven’t walked the Holy Land & I’m unable to conjugate a Greek verb into tenses, moods, or roots. Nor am I versed in hermeneutics, so I’ll give it to you layman style.
     I call it “The Theology of Place”. The place where your feet are, the place where one does business both with God & for God. Like a barefooted Moses at the burning bush, a shepherd with a slingshot turned psalmist & king in spite of a bout of murder & adultery & repentance, or as a verse, the second one in Chapter 43 of Isaiah that I’ve come to embrace states, “…when you walk through the fire you shall not be burned & the flame shall not consume you”.
       I’ve learned it’s better to give a flower to the living than bouquets when they pass. That a phone call, looking another human in the eye or a crayon & paper note with misspelled words from a first grader far outweigh an email or a text or a reminder on a digital calendar.
      I was incredibly privileged in March of 2022 to revisit a staircase & a long hallway in an old school, to revisit a man & a moment. Sadly to give a bouquet of thanks instead of a flower. On that visit I learned that requiem & renaissance are separated by effort & like it or not, everyday that ends in Y is my mission field. At the end of every day that ends in Y, I’ve failed somewhere & some days I’ve failed everywhere & I best make peace with myself & with my Maker before bed, wake up tomorrow, & do it again. Or as an angel with a dust mop so wisely stated as you will read & as I’ve thought about recently as I hang out in a gym & on occasion push the business end of a dust mop… “Keep walking”.
     

AN EMPTY GYM & AN ANGEL WITH A DUST MOP, let me tell you an Easter story: Some time back, on a damp, gray Friday afternoon, my coach walked me out of this gym & down a long hallway. Coach was telling me I wouldn’t be a starter on the basketball team any longer. He had enough respect for his players to tell us things privately. On this cold, rainy December day, there was a third person in the hall. As we walked toward the large picture window that lit the staircase at the end of the hall, I heard the rattle of a dust mop. Our school custodian, Mr. Chapman, was tidying up Mr. Haskins’ science room on our left. We passed as he was exiting, & he must have sensed what was happening. He stopped, dropping his head as men did in those days when a funeral procession went by, & retreated back into the classroom. He stayed until we made our return trip toward the locker room. After two days away, Monday brought a new week, & my first time in the gym since my “firing”. By a quirk of scheduling, I had 5th period English, the class period after lunch, every year. By this time, I must have built up enough good citizen points that I could take a special route to class. That old gym had yet to become my  muse but was already a sanctuary. My path would take me up a back stairwell from the cafeteria through the far end of the gym & out its big double doors to a 45 degree turn into Mrs. Pitts English room. My trip was normally solo but on occasion, Mr. Chapman, armed with his dust mop, would be sweeping after a gym class or an elementary rainy day recess, prepping the floor for hoop practice. He, I would find out on this Monday, knew my route too. As I hit the top landing of that back stairwell, seated at the junction where steps descended from the bleachers, was Mr. Chapman. The business end of his dust mop on the floor, the handle propped against his shoulder, his deep mahogany hands & face popping out of the collar & cuffs of the green shirt of his janitor’s uniform like the neon “hot doughnuts” Krispy Kreme  sign pops in the night. My feet striking the landing brought these words from his mouth,  “…young man, keep your chin up, keep walking, & good things will happen.” In the collision of ignorance & arrogance that is the standard issue train wreck for adolescent boys, I can’t remember my response or if any was offered. I did, fortunately & unwittingly, bank the fire of these words.  A little over 8 years ago, well, no use kidding you, 2,997 days ago, these words were uncovered. As I have gotten older, I’ve come to realize Mr. Chapman spoke from having walked a road of hurt. Being a black man in the south, I’m sure he had experienced more hurt in a week than I have in my lifetime. He recognized my hurt & wanted to lighten my load. As my days speed by, & on this day in particular, I think of another man whose skin is darker than mine, that kept walking on a road of hurt so good things would happen. A road trekked to lighten not just my load but the load of us all, because like Mr.. Chapman, he knew & knows our routes, knows when there are days of distress, knows the days when there is a change of plans, knows there are days, walks, & words that hurt. Days that begin like the one 3 women & 11 disciples had at an empty tomb, like I had in a schoolhouse hallway, a day when victory’s forest couldn’t be seen through the saplings of defeat. As I stood in ashes & rubble nearly 3,000 days ago, stood on what used to be a ceiling, & made numerous trips carrying charred remains to a dumpster, the words “keep walking ” from a cherub dressed in olive drab, returned. The words of an angel long ago were, “…He’s not here…”, that’s just a heavenly riff on the bars & measures of keep walking.  Either version, from an angel at an empty tomb or an angel with a dust mop in an empty gym, for those days when plans fall apart, their words have the same effect, their words turn a prison into a gateway. I hope you have an encounter at an empty tomb, I hope you meet a dust mop wielding angel in an empty gym, just so you’ll always remember to, “Keep your chin up, keep walking, and good things will happen.”…