No Unknown Soldiers

One of my best friends on and off the road is Janet Paschal.  I always smile when I hear people describe her as if she were a china doll, fragile, breakable, and delicate with black patent leather shoes painted on her china feet.  Okay, yes, Janet is petite and beautiful with a voice that can sooth the troubled beast, but she is no china doll.  She is smart, witty, and certainly no push-over.  She has opinions and good logic to back them up. Janet is also a good songwriter.

One of her best songs is one she wrote about her grandfather when he was leaving this world, “Another Soldier’s Coming Home.”  It’s addressed to her heavenly Father about this dear man who served God faithfully all his life.  So many of those who have lost a loved one who was a role model of faith over the years have identified with this song.

Of course, because of the soldier metaphor in the song, it has resonated with many military families.  Years after she wrote it, Janet got word that a soldier that had been killed in 1972 during the Vietnam War, listed as an unknown soldier, and buried at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier at Arlington National Cemetery, had been identified by his DNA as Michael Blassie and was being shipped home to his family in Missouri.  The family contacted Janet to ask if she would come to the ceremony for his reburial and sing her song, “Another Soldier’s Coming Home.” The military burial was covered by all the major networks.

Bill and I watch the beautiful service with tears in our eyes as this once lost and unidentified young man was celebrated by his mid-west family and community.  One of the moving speeches was given by a high-ranking officer who said in his tribute, “This may be the last unknown soldier to serve our country because of the discovery of DNA....”

It was that line that caught my attention.  I kept thinking that this soldier, who knew Jesus and had come from a family of strong faith, was never unidentified or missing-in-action in the Army of the Lord.  No faithful soldier in the service of that army can ever be lost.  God has always had our DNA and never leaves those who serve Him to languish on life’s battlefield.

In the next few days after the ceremony in St. Louis, I wrote the lyrics to “No Unknown Soldier” to which Lari Goss wrote the perfect music.  The song was recorded by Ernie Haas and Signature Sound on their upcoming project, and they sang it at the Homecoming taping in Johannesburg, South Africa. 

Thanks to Janet’s tribute to her grandfather and a ceremony to an “unknown soldier” whose identity was finally established, and to an officer who paid tribute to him, a deep truth was stamped on my heart.  God has our true identity established forever.  We are of a royal lineage and can never be lost from the care of the King that we serve.

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It's a Marathon

When I was in elementary school, we had what was called Field Day.  The whole school was involved, and we could sign up ahead of time for the field event for which we felt most suited.  There were standing broad jump, running broad jump, the high jump, the discus throw, a relay race, and the 100 yard dash.  

I wasn’t very athletic.  I couldn’t even throw a softball well enough to make girl’s village summer team, so discus throwing was out of my league entirely, and only tall girls with long legs seemed to excel at the 100 yard dash. So, I always tried the running broad jump and the high jump.  For the broad jump, someone stood at the side of the sawdust pit to mark and measure how far from the jumping line the contestant landed.  More graceful, stronger kids always beat me in that one.

The high jump was performed by jumping over a cane pole, resting on pegs in two parallel vertical posts.  The slightest touch would dislodge the pole.  The object was to get a running start, then hurl one’s body over the pole.  Each successful try was followed by the official moving the pole up one increment on the posts.  The long, lean type was always superior to me in that event.

You can understand, then, why the metaphor of a race has not been the scriptural comparison to most inspire me.  A wave of fifth-grade nausea always seemed to rise in my stomach whenever I read Hebrews 12 and felt Paul start in on me as a runner, and the spiritual journey as a Field Day.

But now that I am older and wiser, I am coming to believe that the race so often referred to in the Bible is not a 100-yard dash or a broad jump (running or standing) or a high jump or discus throw.  I don’t believe that these verses are even about competing or winning.  The race, I am discovering, is not a sprint. It’s a marathon, and the object of this life event is to endure and finish!

It doesn’t matter whether I run, jog, or eventually manage to drag my pulsating, throbbing body over the finish line.  The point is to finish, and get there without giving up.  I’m coming to see that whenever I think I can’t go another inch, there is a support team running alongside to catch me when my knees buckle.  There are fans in the bleachers all along the well-planned and chosen course that have long since found this race possible by finishing it themselves.  At every bend in the track, there they are, cheering and encouraging at the top of their lungs.  “Yes! Yes, you can! You can make it!”  In the Body of Christ, that’s what friends are for.

And I am finally coming to know that endurance is what the Coach is after. He’s not interested in spurts of flashy athletic prowess.  He isn’t impressed by sleek bodies, rippling muscles, or perfect form.  It’s commitment   and determination He adores. It’s the earnest, passionate pursuit of the goal that makes Him proud—staying the course, keeping the faith, and enjoying the journey.

The trophy for this event is engraved not with “First Place Winner” or “Most Valuable Player,” but with “Faithful to the End.” I, even I, can sign up with confidence for that. I may not be good, but I can be stubbornly and joyfully persistent to the end.

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The Fly-over Zone

Tonight Bill and I went to Cracker Barrel together before he met some buddies to go to the Pacer basketball game.  There was a wood fire burning in the big fireplace, which made the place smell like our farm kitchen.

After we ordered, we were catching up on each other’s day when a big man came over to our table.  We didn’t know him but found out he had farmed in our county all his life, and his family was the third generation to live in the same house and farm the same land.  Retired now, he just wanted to thank us for the music he had listened to most of his life.  He said he had originally farmed 1500 acres, most of which by now had been sold off to corporate agriculture.  Smart, wise, and personable, he told us his family’s story and how our songs had intersected with his life.

Our chicken dinners came.  While we ate we noticed a man with his father at the next table.  The sun was setting and was at the place where it shone straight into the older man’s eyes.  The son immediately got up, and I heard him say, “Here, dad, trade places with me.  My eyes can take the brightness better than yours,” as he switched chairs with his father.  Their food arrived, and they paused in their pleasant conversation; the son took his father’s hand across the table, and they bowed their heads and prayed a blessing over their food.

Behind Bill was a couple that looked to be in their late 70s.  Still beautiful, the woman had well-groomed grey hair, and the man engaged her in a conversation about pictures she was showing him on her cell phone; I’m guessing grandkids.

I watched as another couple came in and settled at the table to our left.  The gentleman was pushing his wife in a portable wheel chair.  As the waitress took their order, I noticed that the woman held the menu in her right hand while her left hand rested in her lap.  When their meals came, the husband quietly got up and went around to her side of the table and began cutting her food in manageable pieces; I knew, then, that she only had use of one hand.

Our little waitress was about college age and was working so hard to make sure we had everything we needed, while she juggled the service of four or five other tables.

Three long-term marriages, a middle-aged man enjoying his father, a husband caring for his sweetheart after so many years, a young woman who shows up for work and is full of joy doing it....  These are stories that don’t make the ratings-driven 24/7 news shows.  It isn’t likely that they show up in the political poles.  These folks probably don’t have election signs in their yards or bumper-sticker banners on their cars.

They are not naïve, uneducated, or susceptible to campaigns to cultivate the swing vote. They don’t look to empty platitudes to solve their problems, take care of their aged, or escape responsibility for caring for the less fortunate across the street or down the road. They read, think, love their families, and seek out enriching relationships in their neighborhoods, their churches, and their families.  They care about the hungry and the disenfranchised and show up for organizations that try to address these issues.

Like you, there are days when I think the world is going to hell in a handbag, and then my sweet husband takes me out for fried chicken at the Cracker Barrel down the road, and I come home knowing that there are still strong fibers in the fabric of faith and commitment in this country.  The roots of goodness are deeper than the news would have us believe, and real people are still making a real difference in real places—like Indiana.

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Prioritizing...Again!

Today is my birthday.  I’ve always liked having a birthday on this day, because it is the only date that is a command to go forward:  March 4th!  And forth I intend to go.  But how?  And to where?

 This is not the only time I have paused in mid-journey to listen to the urgings of my soul and to ask God for wisdom in re-aligning priorities.  Over the years Bill and I have had to focus and re-focus on our main calling and the demands it might make for this time in our lives. 

Suzanne, Benjy, and Amy

 There were the years when we were new at being a couple and new at being parents of young children; we were new at being writers and had to sing our own songs if they were going to be heard.  Bill had sung with his brother and sister through high school and college, but by the time we were married, his siblings had taken another path, and he was directing the music at a local church, putting small groups together to sing with the choir.  We were both teaching high school and writing our songs; he would try them out on the choir at church.

 As the songs began to have impact, calls began to come in from churches where Bill, Danny, and Mary Ann had sung as kids, asking if he would come and sing the new songs.  He tried putting together various combinations, but finally said to me, “You need to sing; I’m just used to a family group, and we are writing these songs together.”  Like all preachers’ kids I had sung in our local churches, but never considered myself a “singer” in the professional sense of the word.  I was confident writing and speaking; those were my comfort zones. Vocal performance was not my strong suit.

My mother (Dorthy Sickal) and our middle child Amy.

 But priorities shifted.  To sing our songs enough to let people hear them, I had to balance that with keeping our little children our priority.  Between our two youngest babies, my pastor parents retired from the ministry and moved to Indiana to take over with the children on week-ends when we sang. We knew this was not an accident, and we began to write our travelling/familying life in new songs.

 Singing and traveling seemed to spawn other necessities if our concerts were to be effective:  our own publishing company, a choral division so church choirs could sing our songs, a recording studio so we wouldn’t have to be away from our kids during the week when we were recording, decent sound/lights/instruments, a road crew.  Still we were home during the week being a family, running a publishing company, and writing songs. On week-ends we took the child with us who seemed to need special attention that week.  I was writing books, too, and at first Bill was still teaching, but soon his night job took over his day job.  Prioritizing again.

 For more than twenty years we traveled and sang, first with Bill’s brother Danny (when he moved back to our home town) and then with Gary McSpadden.  But when our first daughter graduated from college and our other two were in high school and college, I felt God stirring around in my soul again, and I knew it was time for another chapter—to quit traveling so much to concentrate on finishing my Master’s Degree in English and to be available to “launch” our beautiful emerging young adults.  Suzanne and I took our Master classes together, another delightful mile on my journey.

 I began speaking more and writing more books.  The Vocal Band had continued traveling and felt as if maybe their tenure might be coming to an end; they decided before they “hung it up” to do a Southern Gospel flavored project to honor and thank the aging heroes who had drawn them to gospel music as kids.  Pretty much by accident, Bill discovered a television camera (we had avoided television to protect our children and private lives), and another chapter of our journey began:  The Homecoming Videos.

 Out of that holy accident came a new traveling chapter of Homecoming Concerts, the Homecoming Magazine, and creating a place to enjoy the people who started to travel to our home town studio to see where the videos were being taped and recorded.  We started what we called Gaither Family Resources and the Pure & Simple Restaurant.

 We remembered when our little sheet music business was in our garage.  Song evangelists and traveling groups would stop by our house to get music for the road.  I would fix them lunch, Bill would show them new songs, and after a sweet time of fellowship and stories, they would get sheet music and be on their way.  When we outgrew the garage and moved to a real office with a warehouse, we always missed seeing and praying with the artists.  So when the need arose again, we created a homey place with food, music, great books, and all kinds of resources for home and family where people could find much needed solitude and real community. For 23 years Gaither Family Resources and Gaither Studios have welcomed people from every state and scores of foreign countries.

 Now we find ourselves in another season of prioritizing. We are assessing our time and energy for what may prove to be our final miles of the journey.  Again we have asked ourselves the question:  With the time and energy we have left ahead, what is to be our focus, our main calling?  We have come full circle, perhaps.  Now we feel it is time to simplify our lives down to our first and consistently central calling.  As someone has so aptly said, “The main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing.”  Our main thing for the days ahead is to love God, treasure our marriage and home, enjoy and encourage our three grown children and their children (ages 9-26), and to make music.   Bill will continue to travel with the Vocal Band with a doable and enjoyable schedule, working with young artists, and writing and recording great songs.  I will write—all the kinds of writing that I love the most, including this blog.  Thank you all for not only reading it yourselves but sending it on for others to enjoy and for sending back your comments.  I read them and they give me more ideas.

 If we’ve learned anything over time it is that simple is better and less is more.  (Sorry for the length of the blog this time!) We’ve learned that keeping our private lives central keeps our public lives true.  To tell you the truth we’re more excited about life than we’ve ever been.  And to the next miles of our journey, I say, “Bring it on!”

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