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

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REDEEMED

WAKE

From the soil, they rose, in the footsteps of the King.

The fruit hung low, trees ripe, birds sing.

Flesh, emboldened, and pure in form.

The days before the veil need torn.

TOIL

The sea, it spread, the rocks were thrown.

A harp, the wars, an exile bemoaned.

He’ll come one day, they cried out below.

The vines sat ripe, seeds to be sown.

REST

For a moment, they sit, they stare in awe.

The walls knocked down, so too, the law.

A dove flies near, with watchful eyes.

Sins of the world, gone with a sigh.

KNEEL

Hands held, head down, a state of prayer.

It makes no sense — not just, nor fair.

That He shall die, so I shall live.

On bended knees, my life I give.

 

-David Ray

-88-

After my grandfather passed away, I started writing about him. I started to recall some of my finest memories of him — his smile and laugh, his working in the garden, his dinner table stories. It was my way of trying to suffocate the pain I was feeling. I would try to extinguish the midnight tears with the memory of him sitting at the head of the table doing math on a napkin at dinner.

My grandma has enjoyed me writing about him with one stipulation. She wanted me to write my memories and feelings about her before she was gone from this temporal world. I’m not sure that she wants the confirmation that she did a good job in raising me, because I tell her that quite often. But it’s certainly nice to hear people say nice things about you, isn’t it?

But for some reason I’ve had a really difficult time putting her into words. She means more to me than most anyone, yet I’ve had a strange inability to express exactly how she has impacted me. And that’s not a bad thing, in any light. Sometimes when people have such a profound impact on you it’s hard to pinpoint where to begin. I could tell you she is the most strong-willed woman I’ve ever met, and that would be true, and good. Or I could tell you that she is brutally honest and yet filled with an ocean of grace. And maybe I could tell you she is a rock of faith and more eager than anyone to be reunited with her Lord in Heaven.

I can also tell you I’m not ready for her to go.

OK, so, my favorite memory?

She picked me up twice a week to get allergy shots when I was a boy. There was always a Hershey Kiss awaiting me in the seat, and that was far from the best part of our trip. There was Tic-Tac-Toe in the waiting room, when she always let me win a few. And a trip to the drug store next door where she let me get a bottled Coke and PayDay bar.

She spoiled me rotten with her love.

Then after the car ride home, we would swing in the backyard, and she would make me a plate of eggs. As far as I’m concerned, no one has made a better egg on this earth. She has the grandmother’s sixth sense to know when I want some — at this point, I don’t even have to ask.

And I’ll never forget your face the first time I recited the 23rd Psalm to you. It was like you won the lottery.

Well, those are memories, and there are plenty of them, and certainly I could go on for quite awhile about what I remember.

But instead, grandma, I want to tell you how I will remember you. Because, today, you remember our times together, just like I do. So instead, maybe it’s best to tell you what has stuck with me the most over almost 21 years.

I treasure your love for the Braves. Even though you don’t like my favorite player, Chipper Jones, because he cheated on his wife and you don’t stand for that.

I learned from your love to read. I think you passed that straight to me. To me, you will always be the woman curled up in your recliner — warm pack on your shoulders — reading a novel.

I am inspired by your love to garden. I will always remember our sleeves rolled up canning fresh green beans.

I smile at the very whisper of your laugh. Infectious, growing, deep, and warm like a blanket.

I delight in the Lord because of your teachings. Not a day has gone by when we are together that you haven’t shown me how deep the Father’s love is for us.

I appreciate your beginnings. The ninth of ten children, the little girl, the humble start.

I cry at the thought of your pain. When granddaddy died, you were rock-solid, but aching underneath as your partner departed.

I feel empowered by your strength. How you never faltered. How you gripped my shoulders as we hugged. How you ended each meeting with an “I Love You” growing in pitch, with each word.

I find great joy in making you proud. I have gotten the chance to do some incredible things in incredible places over the past couple of years, and not once — I promise — when I walk out of a stadium or saw my name in some newspaper did I not think of you and granddaddy.

I am who I am today because of the way you have cared for me.

I will love you for the rest of my days. I will tell my children and their children and their children, if I’m lucky, how much my grandma loved them and how one day, we will all sit at the Lord’s Table together, hand-in-hand.

And I bet you there will be scrambled eggs waiting.

But until then, grandma, we have  more memories to make.

-David Ray

‘What Is It To You?’

A story, from the Gospel of John, for our New Year:

One of my favorite chapters in the Gospels is actually the last one of them all. John 21. For some reason the mystery and beauty of the resurrected Jesus appearing to his disciples has always stuck out to me. What would he do now that he’s back? Would he slap Peter for being a coward? Would he flip over the tables in the Temple, again? Would he yell at Pilate?

Of course not. He would make a little fire on the beach and wait for his friends to return from fishing. Duh.

You probably know the story. When breakfast was over and Jesus and Peter were staring at their empty plates, Jesus asked Peter if he loved him. Three times, in fact. A reminder of what his denial a few days before. And each time Peter said he loved him, and Jesus replied, OK then, “feed my sheep,” “feed my lambs,” and “tend my sheep.”

It’s beautiful. And to me, it’s a grand image to start the New Year with. The past, the denial, the death, it’s gone. It is forgotten and forgiven. Instead, Jesus gives a simple command: “Feed my sheep.”

Jesus says, hey, do my work. Do good work. Take care of yourself, but take care of your neighbor. He says feed my people. Clothe them. Tell them the Good News. You denied me, but that isn’t what is important. What’s important is the work that sits ahead of you to do.

What comes next in John 21 is often forgotten and overlooked. Heck, if I was preaching a sermon on this chapter, I, too, might try to forget this happens.

You see, the King of Kings came back to Peter and helped him catch fish and prepared a fire for him. Then, he redeemed him. He pulled him back into the fold. But the next thing Peter says is: “What about him?” pointing to the disciple John.

After one of the most beautiful moments in the history of humanity occurs, Peter can’t help but wonder about the guy sitting next to him. He wants to know what Jesus thinks about the other guys. Will they be forgiven? Will they die or will they be taken with you? What’s the deal?

Jesus looks back and says simply, “What is it to you? Follow me.”

How often we look around us to see how he/she is doing. We want to know what’s going on with everyone else’s grades and followers on Instagram and internships and you name it. We have to see how we stack up. And if Peter does it after an encounter with Jesus, you know we all do it.

But Jesus’ reply is the command I hope I can stick with and remember in the fresh start of 2017:

“What is it to you? Follow me.”

It’s the idea that the it in “what is it to you?” isn’t just the guy sitting next to you — it’s everything that keeps you from being with Him.

What is worrying about the future, what is worrying about who has been to Sunday School the most, what is worrying about being accepted, when you should simply trust and follow?

What is it to you? Follow me.

 

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

-24-

Dawn.

Yesterday, washed with the shore. Today, risen with the doves.

Hot mugs, torn bindings — a compelling start.

Whisking worries, precious prayers, distant dreams.

A new sun brings light. Creates promise. Drives creation.

There is hope in the world, when the rooster crows.

Noon.

Elevators and handshakes and the Times and screens.

Pulled from here to there: the goal? Stay true.

But the collar pulls tight and the walls ring blank.

The clock ticks leisurely and the coffee is cold.

There is profit in the world, when the coat drapes shoulders.

Dusk.

There’s the sun, again. It’s been too long, old friend.

The plates are on the table and the six o’ clock news is on the set.

Would you stay awhile? Kick up your feet and wet your lips?

Tomorrow, it will come. Tonight, we dance.

There is love in the world, when the table is full.

Midnight.

The stars waltz, the moon hangs, the sky awakens.

The trees whisper bedtime tales of the days of long ago.

She’s asleep, the sun, there’s peace beneath the pines.

For a moment, there is silence. There is tranquility. There is stillness.

There is peace in the world, when the owl makes its bed.

 

— David Ray

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.