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.

 

 

 

 

-54-

the sign of a doer rests not in the mind

nor bound shelves or desirable degrees

social provocation or party destinations

checks cut or figured salaries

worn crucifixes or alter calls

the sign of a doer rests on the feet

grass stained and torn

blistered and cracked

dirty from toil

cut from strife

tired from pursuit

laced from posture

doers rest on bended knees

while others nod and clap

the weight of anticipation forces

itself on the silt-filled feet of doers

who have done what needed done

for kingdom come.

— 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

May It Last

I write about the same things because I struggle with the same things. One of those lately has been the idea of creating and living and the purpose behind it. The concept that what we do and what we make should be because it’s what we want and not because it’s what’s expected or ingrained in us from upbringing.

There’s no value in my Christian faith, for instance, being my faith if I haven’t thought critically about it and pushed myself and asked questions and had concerns and thought deeply. The intent behind it shouldn’t be that my mom and dad made me go to church every Sunday and Wednesday, rather it should be from my own mind and my own heart and my own soul that I want to walk with Jesus and act accordingly.

But outside of religion, this is something that I wonder about and find myself struggling with constantly.

I love things like granddad hats and talking about my weird theology and wearing sandals with pants and my love for Wendell Berry certainly not because it’s cool or “in” or what will make people like me, but because it is something that I love and find joy in so much that I want to share it. Almost like I would not be me, without these things. I don’t know if that makes sense, but I find in our culture that it’s much more popular to be “in” and wear the right clothes and say the right things OR be “out” and do the opposite, leaving no room for this middle ground of just…feeling….and doing. Creating, because, it’s a weight on you that you can’t shake. Not because you want the likes on Instagram or claps after your soliloquy. But because without my work, my thoughts, my feelings, who am I? Compared to this idea of being a mosaic of what the world wants me to look and act like.

I love the Avett Brothers more than just about anything in this world. They mean more to me than I’m able to put into words, and that may sound foolish and hyperbolic, but it’s true.

For the past five summers I’ve been away from home for a significant amount of time and their melodies and lines have always been within me carrying me through the difficult days. Seth and Scott’s songwriting connects with me on a level that only scripture can surpass. I could write a book on this, but I’ll just stop there for the sake of brevity. Last night when I went to see the documentary that Judd Apatow and Michael Bonfiglio directed, on the history of the Brothers and their recent album, I wasn’t expecting any insight on my whole purpose and creation fascination/dilemma.

But as the film winded down so beautifully it climaxed with a scene of the band recording their song “No Hard Feelings.” The tune, written by Seth Avett, is one of the most beautiful, introspective songs they have ever released, and and after the song is over, tears well up in Seth’s eyes. The folks around him applaud, hug him, and tell him ‘good job.’ But his brother Scott sits quietly, with a haze of bewilderment over him.

Outside the studio Scott explains what’s bugging him so much to Seth. It’s that Seth cracked open his heart, dug deep into his soul, and wrote something that mattered to him. It was a product of divorce, loneliness, confusion, and pain, and this wonderful diamond emerged from the dirt. And as Seth cries, finishing the song, singing “I have no enemies,” he is welcomed with applause and hugs. Scott’s not upset about the hugs and kisses, but upset with the fact that we have become so jaded and sterile to our thoughts and feelings on the outside that when we do let others in, they applaud. They say ‘bravo’ and pat us on the back for being real. Why isn’t it like that in the first place? Why don’t people understand that every song, every line that we write is because it is weighing on us. Not to sell records or pay the bills. This is what we have to do. If we weren’t doing this, we would be finding a way to do it.

It struck me. Sometimes, especially in college, you get so deep in the homework and reading that you forget why you’re doing it. You forget that it’s for more than a grade and there’s a deeper purpose behind it. It’s the same with post-college life, too, I know. The 9-5 and the commute and the kids and the chores pile up and it’s probably really easy to forget about who you are and what is weighing on you so hard that you just can’t shake it. It’s easy to begin to identify yourself with what the world says about you — your roles, your relationships, your collections — instead of your heart and passions. It would be a different world, sure enough, if instead of asking people about their hobbies we asked them about what makes them lie awake at night in awe and wonder or pain and sorrow.

Coincidentally, the best advice I have heard on how to live this out comes from the Avett’s themselves: Decide what to be and go be it.

And may it last.

Loving Our Global Brother and Sister

An excerpt from “As Yourself” Chapter II.

Lately I’ve been struggling with the competition between my desires to unplug and focus on the world around me with my desire to completely focus in to help fight the injustice and issues plaguing our society.

There’s part of me that hates getting constant notifications of what is wrong in the world. Some days it feels like that’s all I see when I scroll through my phone. Four dead in an attack, health care bill fails, Trump said something crazy. That can get really depressing, and sometimes I find myself in this daze of gloom because I can’t believe what’s happening around me. I feel so saturated by negativity that it’s hard to remain uplifting to those near me. It makes me want to throw my phone in a lake and lay in the grass. Just so I can forget about it all for a moment.

But then there’s the other side of me that wants to share every New Yorker article I read. I wake up in the morning reading the bad news but instead feel this inward pull to go and fix it. I see those notifications and I wonder what my role is in helping. I call it my Don Quixote complex — my mission to civilize. It’s when I feel like I can change the world, I can fix the system, I can affect the way others think and act.

I’ve felt this battle lately because of politics, but I’ve felt it for even longer when it comes to our role as neighbors to those who live thousands of miles away. It’s really easy for me to get caught up in what’s going on locally and even nationally and completely forget about those suffering elsewhere. And it’s even easier to do this in the day and age of Trump. There are so many things to get angry about that I use up all my anger on things around me and forget about the things plaguing the world as a whole.

It’s kind of the reverse of what I was talking about earlier. I can often get in this mindset of an almost hyper-local identity where I’m so focused on what’s happening around me that I forget there is more to this world than the ground I’m standing on.  

My favorite writer is Wendell Berry. He writes fiction, poetry, and essays, and is as an agrarian as much as he is a writer. Berry himself is very reserved and old-fashioned. He refuses to be videod and still uses a typewriter. When he was young Berry spent time in some of the world’s biggest cities from New York to Paris to Rome, but eventually resigned from his day-job and made home on a 125-acre farm in Henry County, Kentucky. He’s a critic of the industrialization in agriculture because it removes, in many ways, the human connection to the land. Later on when we talk about the earth as a neighbor, we will talk about Berry at a great extent. But what interests me about Berry in this context, his his assertion that he belongs to his place as much as he belongs to himself…

 

 

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

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