2010s

My favorite movies of the 2010s in order by release date (that is, until I see UNCUT GEMS, which I think may find its way on the list):

THE TREE OF LIFE (2011)

FRANCES HA (2012)

THE MASTER (2012)

THE PLACE BEYOND THE PINES (2012)

SILVER LININGS PLAYBOOK (2012)

WHIPLASH (2014)

BOYHOOD (2014)

MANCHESTER BY THE SEA (2016)

HELL OR HIGH WATER (2016)

LA LA LAND (2016)

MOONLIGHT (2016)

LADY BIRD (2017)

ROMA (2018)

ONCE UPON A TIME…IN HOLLYWOOD (2019)

MARRIAGE STORY (2019)

Eat your hearts out.

boxd.it/4o6oo

dwelt among us

when will we wake up

to

the lord

in the garden

who sweats and prays for strength

 

when will we wake up

to

the son

in the wilderness

who sees past the material

 

when will we wake up

to

the baby

under the stars

who cries and screams

 

when will we wake up

to

the Christ

on the couch

who praises the anointer

 

when will we wake up

to

the logos

on the mount

who blesses the peacemakers

 

when will we wake up

to

the healer

at a pool, in a home, on the road

who corrects our blindness

 

when will we wake up

to

the king

at the table

who breaks the bread

 

when will we wake up

to

the mother father

on a knee

who calls for the children

 

when will we wake up

to

the man

in the river

who is blessed by the dove

 

when will we wake up

to

the shepherd

in the field

who never abandons her flock

Famous Flower of Manhattan

One of my favorite Avett songs deals with the natural tendency to want to hold on tightly to something meaningful and beautiful and stow it away for onseself. Scott Avett writes about finding a flower in the middle of New York City and wanting to take it home with him. To tear it from the bricks that it lay in and save it from city strife. Instead he leaves it there, realizes his selfish desire to uproot it, sees it flourish from afar, and notes how the flower is much prettier than here with me. 

It is a lovely tune with a great banjo part and it feels more like a story than a song most times that I listen to it. He gives another example about how people want to put bluebirds in cages, but then the world can’t hear them sing. I have always loved Famous Flower of Manhattan because the story Scott is telling is my own in many ways.

While Scott finds something he holds dear and wants to keep it for himself, so too am I notorious for finding something I love deeply whether it be a band or a movie or a place and become so passionate about it that I don’t want to share it with anyone else.

Sometimes I can’t help myself and I eventually force Place Beyond the Pines or Al’s Burger Shack onto everyone I come across, but a lot of deeper, more meaningful things than a movie or a good burger I struggle with presenting and want to pluck up, like Scott’s flower, and keep. So, when the time presents itself to speak on behalf of this thing that is so dear to me, I flail. I balk. I hesitate.

This happened recently to me when I stumbled across Bob Crawford at a local church and had the hardest time expressing to him what he meant to me. How is it possible to explain the peace Don Sutton’s voice calling an Atlanta Braves game on the radio brings to me? Or the deep resonation that Wendell Berry’s The Mad Farmer Liberation Front brings to my soul? David Foster Wallace touches on this when he writes, “How odd I can have all this inside me and to you it’s just words.”

This period of my life has really engulfed me into these types of feelings. I am graduating from UNC, which is home, and my family is moving out of the house I grew up in, which is home.

There is so much there to talk about. The friendships I have made, the moments I will forever remember, the walks home from campus, the wonderful teachers, the brilliant classes, the sprints to Franklin Street, how? How? How is it remotely possible to attempt to eloquently explain what these four years have meant?

The backyard baseball, the sprinkler in the front yard, the meals in the kitchen, the laughs in the dining room, the songs in the den, the games in the computer room, the thousands of days spent with my family in that house, how? How is it remotely possible to attempt to eloquently explain what that house has meant for 19 years?

My first inkling is to keep these things to myself. To withhold emotion. To contain the sorrow. To forbid reminiscing. To pluck the famous flower. These thoughts are too meaningful, too important for me to attempt to elucidate what is bubbling beneath the surface.

But instead, as graduation comes and the move begins, I will do my best to let the flower grow. To appreciate the place UNC and 1414 Deborah Circle will always have in my heart. To allow those places to forever remind me the space they have had in my life over the years, for good and bad. To yearn for the good ol’ days and fight for what is ahead. For we must practice resurrection.

 

 

 

 

— 27 —

pray

without ceasing

they said

but

there is

life to live

people to love

places to go

books to read

music to hear

flowers to smell

rivers to see

mountains to climb

the well

runs

dry

there

in

the days

with no numbers

amongst

the morning breaths

and enemies

the city fights

and bad harmonies

the unmade beds

and crying babies

the poisoned streams

and wet tent memories

pray

without

ceasing

Change in Direction

Some personal news that I felt may be worth sharing as I head into my senior year at UNC.

  • I am giving up my sportswriting responsibilities. Surely there will be moments in the next year where I may do a little bit of writing on the side for extra money or writing for a publication because of something pressing, but I’m going to be stepping down from any positions I hold. I have greatly enjoyed my time with both The Daily Tar Heel and Sports Illustrated Campus Rush, and am very grateful for the opportunities that I have been given with those outlets. However, it seems pretty clear to me that pursuing a career in sportswriting is something that I am no longer interested in, which means I should probably start focusing a little harder on the things I want to do. And with that…
  • I have dropped my journalism major to a minor. In all honesty, once you decided you are done with something, you really want to be done with it. I have already fulfilled my journalism minor and that will be it for me at Carroll Hall, it appears. I have met many close friends and mentors in the J School and am lucky to have spent three years there, but instead I will be spending my time…
  • I am going to write a thesis. So my last year at UNC is going to be one of a lot of reading, writing, and researching. I am writing a thesis with Dr. Bart Ehrman. You have probably heard of Dr. Ehrman before, either because  a Christian at UNC told you he was an evil agnostic teacher of the Bible or because he is a New York Times best-selling author and writer of over 30 books. I hope it’s the latter. Dr. Ehrman is in no way an evil agnostic teacher, and is in fact, a really great man who does incredible amounts for the community and is extremely thoughtful and caring toward students. He is going to teach me a lot. He has very graciously decided to be my thesis advisor even though he is extremely busy, and I will spend next year writing on Jesus’ treatment of women in the canonical gospels and its reception in early Christianity.
  • I am interning at Chapel Hill Bible Church. Next year I will be interning with the Bible Church’s college ministry. I am lucky to call the Bible Church a home, and I am really excited to be a part of the leadership team, lead a life group, and grow as a member of the church. I don’t have a clear outline of exactly what my duties will look like, but I am really looking forward to being more involved at church and getting to be a friend to our entire college ministry. As I continue to think about what I want to be when I’m a grownup (haha), the idea of working in a church is one that comes up often. And as I get closer to applying for Divinity Schools, I really am pumped to get some first-hand experience in the work we do over at the Bible Church.
  • I am still attempting to write a book this summer. I have seven locations spanning from North Carolina to Washington State that I will be traveling to this summer over a five-week period. The Morehead-Cain has given me three wonderful opportunities in the last few summers, and this, to me, is the one I’m most excited about. I am pumped to start meeting incredible people living and working at loving places, and I’m praying that I can do their communities justice in my writing. Whether or not this ends up as some perfectly woven together book or not, I know that it is going to be a fruitful experience for me as a person and writer.  And I’m even more excited about 6,800 miles on the road!

I think that’s it! It’s been a busy year.

“Everyday do something that won’t compute. Love the Lord. Love the world. Work for nothing. Take all that you have and be poor. Love someone who does not deserve it.” –

-da

The Stories We’ll Tell

The most amazing part of the scene on Franklin Street last night wasn’t any fire or tree-climbing hooligan. It wasn’t a camera or a stolen street sign. Nor the sweat dripping from the 55,00 feral bodies littering the streets.

Instead it was the thousands of stories playing out in front of my teary eyes.

There were sons on dad’s necks, with hands raised toward the sky in elation. There were couples kissing. There were sighs of relief. There were grandparents in jerseys. There were grown men brought to their knees. There were tears of joy — and tears for our beloved Marcus and Brice.

Each one, with a different story to tell.

Of course, all of them were elated, but to each of us it means something different. There were no two people on that crowded street that felt the same thing.

For many, it was about redemption and the difference a year makes. For others, it was about seeing that big grin on Theo’s face. For some, it was crying as Roy Williams cut down the nets.

For me, I will remember this team as a bunch of guys who were fun to be around. Sure, I will remember the pain I felt walking into the locker room after the loss last year, but now it will be filled in with the beauty of the confetti falling on their faces.

For Kennedy, Isaiah, and Nate, it was the storybook ending.

It wasn’t a flawless journey and maybe they would do things differently if they had it to do over again, but their journey ended at the pinnacle of their sport. Kennedy cleaned the glass, Isaiah turned it on when we needed him most, and Nate was a calm, steady hand in the backcourt.

For the rest of their days they will say they finished their careers in Chapel Hill as champions.

For Justin, Joel, and Theo, it was their team.

You can make the case that this class will go down as one of the most decorated ever, if they all choose to come back, especially. Justin, a record-breaker, an all-american, a quiet assassin. Joel, the hardest worker I know, a put-the-team-on-my-back type of player, a terror to defend. Theo, a class clown, an incredible passer, a heart and soul of the team.

For the rest of their days they will say they fell, fought back, and found glory.

For the youngsters, Luke, Tony, Seventh, and Brandon, it was their pleasure.

To assist the guys who had been here before, to hit daggers to save the season, to provide crucial minutes off the bench. They learned what it meant to be a Tar Heel. To fight and to rally and to redeem the very depths of a city.

For the rest of their days they will say they learned, executed, and performed when it mattered.

For Roy, it was his life.

It may sound extreme, but you could see it in his eyes. After the Georgia Tech loss to open ACC play. After the big time wins against Louisville and FSU in conference play. After the trials and tribulations of a season. This team, this chance at a title, this journey of redemption — this meant the world to him. To get this group of men, the most fun he’s ever had, on a ladder, in Phoenix, with a pair of scissors in hand.

For the rest of his days he will say he coached a team who believed in him.

Who knows how many people flooded to the streets after the final buzzer. Who knows what was really in the minds of the players and coaches on the floor. Who knows when we’ll be here again.

What I do know, though, is that we all have one hell of a story to tell for the rest of our days.

And once more, a banner to raise.

-da

The Book

As daunting and absurd as it may seem, next summer I will be spending my days writing a book.

I will be traveling across the states (and possibly across the pond) to write a book about loving your neighbor as yourself. To paint a broad stroke, I will visit people, churches, and communities that are doing a great job of loving their neighbors, as we were called to do by Jesus.

The very core of my idea came from Wendell Berry’s “Blessed are the Peacemakers” which outlines the concept that it is fashionable to be a Christian, but not fashionable to act as Christ taught. And although Mr. Berry goes onto specifically discuss the concept of peace and war, he brought me to my own idea: Why do we so often neglect the central tenant of Jesus’ teachings to love our neighbors. From gender to race to socioeconomic status to much more, I hope to find places where people are taking a step further than writing a check once a year, and are desiring and living in a community centered on loving those around them, as Jesus taught.

I am very gracious of the Morehead-Cain for funding and giving me the thumbs-up to road trip around the country and write and meet great people and see beautiful places.

Although I have quite a few people set in stone that I would like to meet, speak with, and spend time with in their respective communities, I am always looking for other ideas and would love to hear any people or places you’ve come across.

–David Ray

“How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live.” –Henry David Thoreau

Truth and Action

Often it takes moments of backbreaking pain or breathtaking ecstasy to bring us to realizations. Often in the mundane, in the day-to-day, in the nine-to-five, nothing changes. Often it takes victory laps, sunsets, or concession speeches, for us to wake up to the world around us.

At the mountaintops of life, the moments of confetti and kissing in the kitchen, you find this to be a pretty good world, after all. It all worked out, just like they said it would. And in the canyons and valleys, the moments of cold pillows and empty seats, you find this to be a pretty cruel world, after all. It never worked out, just like they said it wouldn’t.

This week, a lot of us have found ourselves at one of these two points. Elation for some, desolation, for others. And although it took me a few days to come to grips with what has happened and put my fingers to these keys, I have found some solace.

From E.B. White, this:

“If the world were merely seductive, that would be easy. If it were merely challenging, that would be no problem. But I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve (or save) the world and a desire to enjoy (or savor) the world. This makes it hard to plan the day.”

This is a quote that resonated with me when I was in the mountains in Maine, a few summers ago. I underlined it like crazy, drew arrows, the whole nine yards. It just made sense. There are only so many hours in the day, and there are so many places I want to see and so many things I want to do. Is it possible to save the world and savor it? Is it bad to want to do both?

I would say this is innate for us, to try to find a happy medium.

But I can tell you now more than ever, it should be easy to plan our days. We should arise in the morning with the desire to save the world.

It’s not always quitting jobs and packing bags, though, it’s driving across town when your grandson has a flat tire and sitting with that man at church who has dialysis twice a week. It’s acting. It’s living out love does.  It’s not trying to fix people and what they think or do, and just being with them.

From 1 John, this:

“We know love by this, that he laid down his life for us — and we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers and sisters. How does God’s love abide in anyone who has the world’s goods and sees a brother or sister in need and yet refuses to help? Little children, let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action.”

A chapter that I often turn back to in times of doubt and confusion, 1 John 3, has never felt more apt. There are plenty of things we can get bogged down with in life. Many of them good things to worry and think about, like who our president will be and work and play and beauty. These things happen.

But here in 1 John, we get a beautiful reminder. A reminder that we ought to get more often. Jesus painted love on the cross and told us to be love and hope and a bastion of peace for our neighbors.

How can we not do that in return for Him? How can we not try every single day to arise as the moon rests its head and be better. And do better. And speak truth. And love. And never forget why we get to arise, in the first place.

Because we are called to love, like he loved us.

 

-45-

A word from Wendell Berry’s “Blessed are the Peacemakers,” for this morning. It’s never hit home more than now. And he puts it better than I ever could.

“Any observer would have to say that Christianity is fashionable at present in the United States. This might be a good thing, except that the observer, observing more closely, would have to conclude that to the extent that Christianity is fashionable, it is loosely fashionable. It seems to have remarkably little to do with the things that Jesus Christ actually taught.

Especially among Christians in positions of great wealth and power, the idea of reading the Gospels and of keeping Jesus’s commandments as stated therein has been replaced by a curious process of logic. According to this process, people first declare themselves to be followers of Christ, and then they assume that whatever they say or do merits the adjective ‘Christian’.”

I love you, and I am sorry.

-da

img_1644

The Night of the Unspeakable

There is a climax to every story. There is rising action and a resolution, but it is the climax that keeps you from putting the book down.

For some, this is a moment of great joy. It is cutting down nets and donning rings of silver.

For others, this is a moment of immense pain. It is one less banner in the rafters and a bullet hole sent straight through the heart of destiny.

For the North Carolina men’s basketball community, the night of April 4th, 2016, is a climax they will never forget, no matter how hard they try.

They will remember the hope of a Tar Heel five-point lead at halftime, the despair as Villanova ran away in the second-half and the elation following the Marcus Paige 3-pointer.

It was an evening that everyone in Tar Heel nation had marked on the calendar since the first tip of the basketball in November. It was an evening where legends roamed the hardwood. It was an evening where the boys in Carolina Blue could become immortal.

It was the night of the unspeakable.

***

Jeff Jones sat on the front steps of the University United Methodist Church minutes after Michael Jordan and the UNC basketball team won the 1982 NCAA Championship.

He rushed to Franklin Street, but as blue paint was flung and claustrophobia sunk in, he found himself watching the thousands of students from the elevated church steps.

“I remember being in the middle of the crowd,” Jones said. “The feeling of euphoria was pretty awesome.”

Jones was a freshman at UNC, then, and had been a Tar Heel fanatic since his childhood. Thirty-four years after that March evening when he sat on the church steps, he can still tell you every detail about the day Jordan shook his hand. It was an English 42 recitation, Film Criticism, in a tiny room in Hamilton Hall. Jordan walked in, sat beside him, turned and smiled, “Hi, I’m Michael.”

He remembers the minute details of Carolina basketball. A Walter Davis bandaged hand after the 1977 ACC Championship. A James Worthy missed free throw in 1982. A sleepless night after a season-ending loss to Georgia in 1983. The pain, the joy, they are all still fresh in his mind.

Jones, 53 years old, now, remembers watching the 2016 game from his home just as easily as when he cheered the Tar Heels on from Carmichael Arena.

“I kept thinking this is it — it’s over with,” Jones said, recounting the moment when Villanova held a six-point lead with less than two minutes to play.

But then Marcus Paige hit “The Shot” to tie the game. Falling to the floor, on one foot, almost posing for the camera, the fate of the season hung in the air, in the shape of an orange sphere.

“I’ve seen so many of those Carolina games where we made amazing comebacks,” Jones said. “But that’s one of the greatest shots I’ve ever seen.”

***

Pat James sat center court, three rows back, with his fingers glued to his keyboard when Villanova inbounded the ball with 4.7 seconds left.

After Paige’s shot, he rested for a moment, taking it all in, but then looked right back at his screen.

“When Marcus hit the shot, first it’s kind of hard not to take in the spectacle of it,” James said. “I don’t think anyone could predict what happened next.”

As the sports editor of the Daily Tar Heel and a senior at UNC, the intersection of work and fandom was never more evident. He had two tweets prepared for the DTH’s sports account: one, if the Tar Heels lost, the other if the game went to overtime.

“As soon as Ryan Arcidiacono passed the ball to (Villanova forward Kris) Jenkins, I was already editing the losing tweet,” James said. “I knew it was going in.”

Swish.

“I hit send, I stood up, they celebrate, and I’m watching it all happen as I’m packing my bag,” he said. “I wanted to get out as quick as I could, but I also didn’t care to watch it, as well, from a fan stand point.”

James was the first one out of the media section, hurtling toward the locker room. He pre-wrote part of his story, but after that ending, a blank canvas awaited him as he walked in a room of heartbroken men.

“I had to go over and shake (UNC sports information director Steve) Kirschner’s hand to tell him thank you,” James said, “And in that corner on the left side is Hubert Davis with his hands in his face and there’s Roy [Williams] shaking his head.”

As a senior, covering the last basketball game of his career as the sports editor, the gravity of the moment began to sink in. Sure, he would cover a few baseball games, and yes, he would edit plenty more stories — but this was it. This was what the whole year had built up to. Now he must write.

And how can you do that, in a moment like this? How is it possible to put the emotions, the memories, the power of that game, into words?

“All day, you’re thinking about it,” James said. “Eventually you’re going to have to put your fingers on the keyboard and pound this thing out.”

“While hopefully I’ll get to cover some big stuff down the road, what could possibly get bigger than this?”

***

Marcus Paige sat in the back of the locker room, Gatorade towel draped around his sweating neck, with dozens of microphones in his face.

The point guard had surely spent many nights dreaming about that moment. The moment where he could hit a shot, acrobatic and beautiful, that would give his team a chance to win at the most crucial moment of the game, with his back firmly against the wall.

And he did.

Yet, here he sits, with tears in his eyes.

“That was supposed to be our moment,” Paige said. “I’m going to see it, and it’s going to hurt every time.”

He would never make another 3-pointer, as a Tar Heel. He would never run down the court calling a play, as a Tar Heel. He would never sprint out of the tunnel to a roaring crowd in the Dean Smith Center wearing no. 5, as a Tar Heel.

“It’s hard,” Paige said, “because at some point tonight I have to take this jersey off, and I never get to put it back on.”

For four years, Paige worked every day for the chance to sit in that locker room and take questions from reporters. It’s what motivated him. The awards were great, the kind words were fine, the regular season wins were important. But a national championship — that’s what kept Paige up at night.

He couldn’t help but look back at his time in Carolina Blue. The wins and the losses and the laughs and the tears. His jersey would be in the rafters in the Smith Center with dozens of others, but was that enough?

“You had to get to this level to be considered and to be remembered,” Paige said.

“There’s not a whole lot of guys that have done better than us if you think about it. It’s hard to say now because we were so close to being at the top of the mountain.”

Look down, Marcus. Look how far you climbed.

***

Julianne Strickland sat in the back of a black Nissan Sentra somewhere on a highway in Texas at 3:00 a.m., when someone finally brought it up.

What was it? Maybe it was Paige’s shot. Maybe it was the wrong shade of blue confetti pouring over them as the buzzer sounded. Maybe it was the aching feet from standing in the April, Texas heat. Until that moment, there was silence. Yes, a passing comment about getting gas or stopping to use the restroom, but not a word about the game.

Strickland dared the silence, “I thought we had it won.”

The sophomore and four other friends made the 21-hour trek to Houston to see the Final Four and National Championship games. They took turns driving, slept at a friend’s house at Rice University, and were the first people in line at 8:00 a.m. for the national championship.

“When I bought my tickets I had no clue how I was going to get there or where I would stay,” Strickland said, “But I just trusted that everything would work out.”

Back in the car, her head leaned against the rear window, with a Brice Johnson jersey on, the memories rushed back. From the second row of NRG Stadium, she witnessed one of the greatest endings in the history of the illustrious game of basketball.

“It went from one of the greatest moment of our lives to the worst,” she said.

But there’s no regret for Strickland. She would do it all over again in a heartbeat. What is a five-page paper, what is a good night’s sleep, what is a hundred bucks, to memories made?

“It’s like loving family members — no matter how many times you get upset or disappointed with them, they’re still your family,” Strickland said. “Yeah, my heart felt like it was ripped in two, but I can’t stop loving this team.”

“I will always cheer for those players because they make it feel like I’m part of their family.”

-da