A Welcome Friend

I am sitting at my desk this morning, a fast computer and hot java at my side. In a few minutes, I will pick up a book and begin to read where I left off the other day... And while I have read parts of this book many times, it has been a while since I have spent any real time in it, listening to the words; thinking through the phrases. I am finding new refreshment in letting my imagination create the scenes in my mind- the backstory before the action makes the vivid images even better! What was once only "familiar acquaintence" is becoming a welcome friend.

I read this book in order to learn more about its author. I have been told about Him all my life- good things, difficult things. I know the author, and He knows me.....

But I really, really want to get to know Him and His Son a lot better. I am learning that the things I have been taught about them- while important and meaningful- are much more endearing, more intersting, and more incredible as I get to know them on my own. I am less afraid; more accepted. Less rhetoric, more compassion. Less dogma, more action. Less "build it and they will come", more "live it and stop worrying about what they think".

I want my wife and children to know where I stand. I want them to see the persistence, consistency and stamina of a Godly man. I want my family to know that the perception of Godliness is like a sheer vapor- almost everyone sees through it. The only people who don't are other religious people who can't see through their own veil of religiousity. I want to be real; I want to try and fail; and try again. I want them to know they can try, and if they fail I want them to know they can get up again, and go on.

That's what I have learned so far.... only 46 pages in.

What have you learned recently? What jazzes you about new discoveries in the word?

Wow. Just wow.

We've been away from the blog for a while due to bad weather and generally not being clever enough to come up with something fresh. So here is an offering to fill in the gaps. Don't try the eyebrow thing at home... these are highly trained professionals; plus, your eyebrows may stick that way....

Wow. Just wow.


Cadbury Eyebrows from Nils-Petter Lovgren on Vimeo.

An Historic Day

This day signifies a remarkable turn of events in our nation's storied history. As the Inauguration ceremony for our 44th president begins, millions will gather in our nation's capital to celebrate. Many more millions will gather around their televisions and will celebrate in their native tongue all around the world. As the most powerful nation on Planet Earth peacefully changes its leader, the world watches. Many nations envy our political system; our economic system, and our freedoms. While this country is far from perfect, and, depending on whose side you are on, is succeeding or failing, today is an unprecedented day in our history.

No matter whose side you are on, you have to be thankful for the system of government that peacefully changes leadership , with careful regard to dignity, integrity, and character. Democrat and Republican and Independent must celebrate today. No matter whether your team won or lost, today we show the world what it looks like for a Republic with a democratic, representative system of government to do what it does best- represent the people.

Will today's inauguration of the first black president change the world as we know it? I doubt it. Wars will rage, people will be hungry, crime will continue to ravage communities and cities. No, the ceremony of his inauguration will not change the world, but his actions, his policy, his leadership as President surely will.

Good or bad, get behind the process. Celebrate your voice in the system.

Let's party!

Plain with No Cheese

One of the drawbacks to serving a church is the unusual meal times that often come from unusual work schedules. Late meetings, hospital or other emergency calls, late rehearsals and video shoots often come with no regard to my biological clock telling me the tank is empty. If you have seen my tank, you know that it looks as if it has never been empty; like this old wineskin is overfilled to the bursting point with new wine, old wine, deep fried with extra gravy. However, that is a tear-jerker for another time.

Back on track....

Often, on my way home following a long day at work, I will order a meal through the drive-through window at a favorite local fast-food joint in our small town. It is a national chain restaurant whose name you would recognize, but for liability reasons, I'll let her remain anonymous. I had great respect for her dad, but Wendy's has gone down hill some since he passed on.

Anyway, when I order a burger combo, I order it without cheese. As odd as it sounds, I am one of the few authentic American-born conservative musicians who don't like cheese on their sandwiches. There; I said it. I don't want cheese on my burger.

At the drive-through window, I always order the same combo, using the same delivery and words each time. I say, "I'd like a Number 1 Combo, PLAIN with NO CHEESE; and I'd like a Diet Dr. Pepper to drink". They enter it into the computer, and the display at the drive through shows it exactly as I ordered it. Success!

However...

I have learned that when the server hands my food through the window, I must check the sandwich before I pull away. Four times out of five, the order will be prepared incorrectly, leading to a bit of stress at the drive-through. Tonight was a repeat of the usual dance of the drive-through.

She handed me the sack with my prized sustenance inside. I thanked her, she smiled and replied, "you're welcome". But instead of driving off, I put the transmission in park while I checked the sandwich in my treasure bag. Sure enough, the sandwich was dripping in cheese.

So, I sat there.

I did not pull over so the next costumer could have their order filled. I waited for the server to notice that I was still there, waving a double-meat burger WITH CHEESE out of my window to try to get her attention. She saw me, but acted like she didn't. I don't know how she could miss me- the grease was running down my arm, and I accidentally slung some ketchup on the window.

When the guy two cars behind me blew his horn, she finally came to the window. Instead of the pleasant smile, I was offered an icy frown; at least it looked that way through the ketchup. Without a word, she took my sandwich from my greasy hand. While I think she knew what the problem was, I felt obligated to tell her that the sandwich was covered in cheese, and I had ordered it without cheese. I was still talking as she closed the window and walked away; the guy two cars behind me continued to blow his horn.

When the nice lady returned to the window with my supper in her hand, she yanked open the window and practically threw it at me. This action activated my mercy gene which caused me to ask, "Is there some kind of secret password I need to use that allows me to order a sandwich without cheese? Is there a certain phrase, or a specific order of my wording that will result in having my order completed successfully? Or maybe you don't sell sandwiches without cheese, and I am asking something that this restaurant is not equipped to do. If so, what exactly do I need to say to avoid this problem in the future?"

She coldly replied that I need to clearly and concisely say that I'd like my sandwich with no American cheese. Which prompted me to ask, "Isn't that what I said ten minutes ago when I originally ordered this meal? What did I do wrong? And how many ways can I say it- NO CHEESE!?"

By this time I noticed that she was holding some kind of butcher knife in her hand, rolling it over and over in her palm. I'm sure I looked surprised, for when I looked up to ask her if she was ok, I could see a weird vein pulsing violently on her forehead, just off center toward her right eye. Which was twitching.

In that singular moment of clarity, waves of hunger and weakness ravaged my body, so I quickly pulled away without benefit of honest answers to my queries.

But I only pulled up so far as to clear the drive window. Yes, I stopped to check my sandwich. It was greasy and cold.

Plain with no cheese.

Bob-A-Que

I'm cooking pork shoulders today for a party I'm having tonight for our worship teams. I really enjoy the science, chemistry, and art of cooking shoulders! It reminds me of Dad, and is part of the legacy he left for the rest of us.

It doesn't take a lot of work to cook shoulders, just a lot of time and patience. I cook them the way Dad did, which is not the way people cook them here in Oklahoma. But that's ok- Dad didn't do a lot of things the way others did them.

I like the process of cleaning the grill, preparing the grate for the meat. I like selecting the shoulder by weight, fat content, and color. I have a special charcoal recipe that usually will give the meat a nice hickory flavor without being too smokey or too hot.

After my Dad died, I bought a special grill just for shoulders. It will hold three picnic shoulders, two large full shoulders, or four picnic roasts. It has a fire pit with adjustable height, which allows me to control the amount of direct heat. It has a pull-out tray for charcoal ash, making cleaning the ashes an easy proposition.

I start the fire 40 minutes before I put the meat on the grill. The coals are orange-white hot, no flame, but lots of heat. I level those coals in the bottom of the grill. I then slip on my dad's leather cooking gloves and hoist the 20lb. shoulder onto the grill. It is comforting to know that my Dad used those very gloves for years, on the same hands that offered help to the needy, that served discipline when my sisters needed it, that pulled me out of the river, and that held his worn Bible when he read scripture in church. The hands that are now physically at rest, but in Heaven, are certainly getting used in praise and worship.

I check the thermometer every 15 minutes or so, never letting the temperature get above 325. Dad checked his about every 45 minutes. He had cooked enough that he had his pattern down pat. Me, I'm still learning....

After 4 hours of hickory smoke and heat, I wrap the shoulders in a double layer of heavy-duty foil. I don't really know why- but because Dad did it, I do it too. I think it helps keep the juices inside the meat better. At least that is what I tell myself.

I have to keep hot coals ready at all times, in case the coals on the grill are drowned out by grease, or just go out from lack of fuel. I keep my feeder coals in a grill that my sweet family bought me for Father's Day several years ago. Dad kept his feeder coals in an old galvanized percelain sink. It was weatherbeaten, rusty in spots from years of abuse, and on the ground. Dad had to lean down to gather a shovelfull of coals and bring them up to waist level for use in the grill. I can't tell you how many times he dropped some hot coals on the ground, catching whatever was laying there on fire. I stomped out many patches of grass over the years!

I'll turn the shoulders with their foil dressings about once an hour for 8 more hours. Now, though, I can maybe nap just a little. The last time we cooked together, we didn't nap at all. We knew it was probably the last time we'd cook together. No, there was no sleep; there would be plenty of time for that later.

After about 13 total hours, I'll check the shoulders by pushing- through the foil- on the bone of the shoulder. When the bone slips around loosely, the shoulder is ready to take up. I'll let them cool for a good while before unwrapping the meat. Time for a nap.

When the meat has cooled, it is time for the big reveal. I carefully unwrap the meat, freeing it from the foil container that has kept juices from excaping the meat. The shoulder, still well over 170 degrees, is alomost too hot to touch. But as the meat falls apart into the pan prepared for it, it is easy to tell if this has been a successful cook. For Dad, it was the best time of the entire experience, followed by the worst time.

It takes quite a bit of time to pull the tender meat from the shoulder. The strips are placed into a glass bowl, salted, and mixed with a little bit of Dad's secret recipe sauce. Yes, I still have some, and will serve it tonight with my friends.

The very best time comes when it is time to eat. For 30 years, I have always compared every bar-b-que sandwich I have ever eaten with the flavor of the bar-b-que that my dad makes- used to make. I will compare the flavor of this meat tonight with his. I can cook for another 30 years, and will always compare the flavor of my bar-b-que to his; my sauce to his; my life to his.

Some people play golf, some cards, some bet on horses. My dad cooked bar-b-que. We called it Bob-a-que. It was the best.

Family

I am looking at a photo of family from Alabama. The photo is of my mom's sister and her beautiful daughters. That photo is called "Family", and it has caused a flood of memories....

When I was a kid, my family didn't take many vacations. We lived in West Tennessee near the cotton fields and river bottoms where my Dad was raised, but my mom grew up in the hills of North Eastern Alabama. So our vacations always (all but two) consisted of loading the station wagon and heading to Memphis, turning east down Highway 70 through Mississippi into Alabama, and on to Sand Mountain, to visit Mom's "people".

The aunt in the photo looks just like my mom, who passed away in 1996. My aunt's house was always one of the fun places to visit on our treks to Alabama, because she had daughters. And she had several daughters who liked to mother me. I was always entertained, coddled, and cared for. I do have one or two embarrassing memories at my aunt's house, but I try not to drag those out too often.

I liked to visit my aunt's house because she always made my mom laugh. They laughed big and loud- and often! My mom was a rather serious person most of the time, but she really enjoyed going home to visit. My dad enjoyed going there as well, continuing to visit long after mom had died- he always thought mom would want him to keep up with "the Alabama families". And now my aunt and my step-mom have become fast friends. Relationships are a beautiful thing!

When I first saw the photo on FaceBook, I thought it was an older photo of my mom and some of her family. As I read the caption and studied the photo, I recognized it to be my aunt and her girls. My aunt looks unbelievably like my mom did, with that silver-white hair and thin-framed glasses. All the women in the family have the high, distinct cheekbones that betray their Cherokee heritage. In the photo, the daughters have beautiful, dark hair that compliments those cheekbones- but since I have been married 22 years, I now know that I, too, can have that same hair color for about $12.50 and an hour or so.

As I look at the faces of the daughters, different memories come to mind; the Christmases, the pictures of their families and kids; Mom making my sisters and me play impromptu piano recitals for them; ginormous feasts at the home where my mom grew up, consuming vast amounts of fried foods and fresh vegetables. Of the five daughters, I can remember having crushes on at least three of them, even though they are all way older than me....

I see my aunt in the photo with her girls, and I also see a family held together with faith and love and hard work. I see smiles on every face; smiles that display the affection awarded only to those relationships found in a loving family. I see my mom, and wish I could make another family photo with her, seated in front of us, wearing a tiara, confirming the matriarch of the family is still here, still in charge. Still proud of her kids, as is my aunt, in the photo.

We haven't been to Sand Mountain in long time. Maybe it's time for me to head to Memphis, turn east down Highway 70 through Mississippi into Alabama, and on to Sand Mountain, to visit Mom's "people".

My mom would want me to keep up with her family.

Go Gators!

Go Gators!

There. I said it.



Tonight, the Florida Gators won the BCS National Championship in college football over the Oklahoma Sooners. They played a defensive battle to a 24-14 score. In actuality, a good part of the game was boring. Turnovers, penalties, just sloppy play. But that isn't my problem.

I grew up in the shadow of SEC central in West Tennessee. It is an obvious fact that SEC football is the strongest, toughest conference in all of college football. I will put the SEC against any conference, and tonight, the SEC champs prevailed.

As a fan of Tennessee football, I naturally hate Florida. It is a well-known, documented fact that most Vol fans hate the Gators. It is a genetic thing, born from the depths of my cotton field and river bottom soul, that I just cannot change.

My team (the Tennessee Vols) did not play in a bowl game because they stink. So, I pulled for the Gators.

My problem is that I now live in Oklahoma.

All my Okie friends and co-workers are loudly and obnoxiously pulling for the Sooners. My competition shooting friends are worse than anyone in raising the merits of the Sooners and trash-talking the Gators.

It is not that I dislike Oklahoma- far from it. I just dislike the Oklahoma Sooner fight song. "Boomer Sooner". What is that? The melody is not musical, and it is just nauseating to hear that collection of harmonies played through time and time again. Here, it plays on TV; cell phone ring tones; door chimes; baby toys; car horns; birthday cards. Anything that might play some music, generally plays that Boomer Sooner mess. And I believe that is reason enough to dislike the Sooners, the team representing the state in which I now live.

But that isn't my problem either.

When it is all boiled down, I dislike the Gators less than the Sooners because they are part of the SEC.

So what is my problem? My problem is that I now have 8 months before I can begin disliking Florida again.

Go Vols!

I hope we don't stink again....