Terry Moran described the celebration and this good man with those words. It was a cold, pouring rain in and around the packed stadium this day. Rain is a sign of blessing and joy during a memorial in Africa.

There is nothing I can say about the man that hasn’t been said by those galactically more eloquent that I. This simply offers my penned tribute and gratitude.

My library contains three books by and/or about the great Nelson Mandella. My favorite, In His Own Words, offers personal reflections of a life of oppression and freedom; of courage and vulnerability.

On the night of his passing I walked down and pulled the works from their place on the shelf–or from their place in a stack on the floor. My hand shook a little as I pulled Long Walk to Freedom from my autobiography section. I realized the subject of these thousands of pages had now left us. I paused and offered a wish for peace and said “thank you” as I stood in the small room filled with books and bottles of wine and music of all kinds. I realized I was surrounded by the things that feed my soul, and how such a soulful man, chief among them, was now gone. This book sat next to Make Gentle the Life of This World: The Vision of Robert F. Kennedy. An ironic and sweet proximity.

I experienced racial prejudice for the first time after moving to Panama City, Florida at the end of my 7th grade year. I was motioned to a seat in class next to Angela Woods, a beautiful, kind, and edgy girl. She smiled and offered a muted, “Hi, new kid.” Oh, by the way, she was–and remains–black. Later that same day, I found her in the cafeteria during lunch. Not knowing any better (or worse, in this case), I sat down next to her and enjoyed chicken chunks of some variety and peanut butter balls lightly covered with powdered sugar. After lunch I went to my new locker and was immediately surrounded by four or five guys, all wearing baseball caps (what is it about race hate and baseball caps with select logos?) who wanted to let me know, through a series of pushes and shoves, that we didn’t need any more “nigger lovers” at Rosenwald. That was the beginning of an orientation to a disgusting and continuing chapter in this “Land of the free.”

Things eased a little over the years. People found their uncomfortable “place” in this still-struggling society. Some of us use the discomfort for advocacy. Others rely on the discomfort to remain hunkered down in their ignorance. Keep the fight.

Mr. Mandella fought…in the best way. Through his words and actions. He moved millions from a cell in a horrible prison while serving a life sentence for his struggle against the abomination of apartheid. As history has proven, truth and justice have their way over evil, ultimately. As providence would have it, the planet was exposed for a time to a man, like others in history, who was willing to pay with his life for a cause of freedom.

My friend, Basil, once said to me, “The only time in my life I have felt pride in being a South African was in February of 1990, when this good fighter was released from the hell of injustice.” My friend was a 25 year-old at the time. A student and a protester against apartheid. I’m sure he is sad this week, but also smiling on a life devoted to defeating ignorance. Smiling on a life dedicated to speaking for and standing for what is right, regardless of our fucking’ placement on the color wheel. I’m sure Basil raises his face to the cold rain and smiles.

It is raining in my Carolina this morning. I will walk outside to do just the same.

Peace, Madiba. Thank you.

Sitting comfortably in my First Class seat from Charlotte, NC on my my way to Lawton, Oklahoma via Dallas, Texas. Comfortable, but anxious, like the kind before going on stage or on a first date or racing toward an unknown trail. Mind and heart racing and wishing I could add thrust power to this Boeing 757. High above the clouds that canopy a huge Winter storm sweeping the midwest and waltzing her way toward my Carolina. I gaze from my window seat across the sun-drenched sky around me. I look down at the clouds below, knowing that the earth underneath is gray and cold and wet. Above the storm and hoping she is kind as we soon descend through her on our way to the place I belong over these days of giving thanks.

He was the greatest little boy. Logan Ted Keyser. Born on the fourteenth day of April, one day after my own. God’s additional reminder of the beauty of life’s circle.

Chelsea was born only days after Dad’s passing. He held her in his arms before leaving us too soon. Her birth brought joy where sadness was so overwhelming. To this very day she represents what is possible, not what is lost. Then, two years later this little guy would add his own serendipity.

My birthday was destined to be melancholy. Dad died on April 12. With my birthday on the 13th of the same month, how could it not be a sad time? Well, there was a plan…Logan arrived on the 14th. Again, where there is loss, there is joy. A yearly reminder of life’s precious cadence.

My little man graduates from Basic Training tomorrow morning. His own destiny revealed. He grew up a cheerful spirit. A peacemaker of the most extraordinary kind. Playful and curious. His hope for reconciliation in a broken home was always trumped by his love for us individually. Always the one to want the best for us–whatever that meant. Always the most encouraging and affirming.

His dad, an athlete and a bit of an artist. Logan sought his own way through the things he wanted and the things we wanted for him. Good at everything…great at few (according to him, at the time–I happened to think he was perfect). Then, as he moved into high school he found his own groove. Wrestling and guitar and theater. His curiosity turned to passion. He took a stage, never seeking applause, but hoping to express and share his gifts. Teachable. Inventive. Authentic. Loving.

Five years ago, on a visit to Charlotte he said, “Dad, I think I’m interested in medicine and nursing.” Well, he was in the right place to find out. I put him on a three-day scavenger hunt with physician and nursing leaders in one of my hospitals. They took him in and offered their guidance. He saw what happens in these places of healing. The mix of science and art. From invasive surgery with instruments and gasses and protocols to the compassionate enveloping hands around a little life born too early in the NICU. He came home day 3 and said, “That’s what I wanna do.”

He did. A graduate of Belmont University’s nursing program–one of the most respected in the land. It was all a part of his master plan.

He would not only use his unique mix of compassion and precision in medicine, but serve us all as a soldier. He raced to his dual calling with determination that inspires me to this moment.

As I watched the van drive from the parking lot of his swearing-in ceremony, September 17th, I cried and cheered at the same time. He waved through the window and nodded at me as if to say, “It’s okay, Dad…I’ll make you proud.” He already knew that from the moment I brushed my hand across his little newborn bald head that I was the proudest man alive…its never changed.

In a matter of hours I will see him in his Army uniform. Prepared and fresh. Proud and strong. A natural leader of men and all people. A servant for a country and to anyone in need. In a matter of hours we will hear his stories of Basic and meet his new family of “battle buddies.” We will relish every moment as they will be fewer and fewer from this day. I will give thanks on Thursday for so much, but especially for the gifts of Logan and Chelsea and for the rich life they bring to this planet.

Logan didn’t get to meet my dad, but their soldier connection is something they will both smile on. I know Dad will fly air cover for his grandson for the years to come.

Now, as we descend through this storm and head for earth, I pray for his safety, for the ability to stay above the storms, and also for a soft landing from those he must go through.

You are my hero, Logan.

Love,

Dad.

No matter how many times I experience a museum of art, in today’s case, The Mint in Charlotte, I find a whole new range of sensory response.

Emotive.

The permanent exhibits speak differently as if to say, “I’ll bet you didn’t catch this before…” This hue, this movement, this texture.

The uptown jaunt was to witness the early exhibit construction by artist, Motoi Yamamoto. The exhibit is one of his “Returned to Sea” projects. His medium is salt. Just salt. Motoi works with surgical precision and a painter’s flow to produce an evocotive floor of beauty.

We stood silently watching as he sat quietly on a mat and delicately and rhythmically moved as salt flowed from a plastic funnel, like those used by bakers applying icing to a wedding cake. The room was silent but for the sound of grains as they spilled onto the surface. Motoi would turn his head here and there and move his mat back a few inches, adjust his position and pour over the next waiting area. The organic beauty and the silence and the craftsmanship in the moment were enough to fill a day. Once, just for a moment, he looked up and offered a smile and got one in return. Mutual gratitude.

Then, strolling through from room to room, the voices spoke from the canvas, the metal, the wood, the glass, the clay, the fabric, and all other manner of vessel for expression. They did what they do. Some whispered. Other pieces screamed out as if an anxious child demanding attention. Others, still, as if coyly inviting my interpretation. Peace.

Exiting the place of art brought an entirely new and unexpected joy. Snow. It fell from the sky in waves and quickly covered the cars and the benches and the streets of uptown. It blanketed the floor outside. It’s product equally beautiful and strikingly similar to the salt covering the floor only a few feet away inside.

The drive home was quiet and appreciative. Taking in the art of this soulful man from Ishikawa and the art of nature as she poured onto her canvas.

It was a good day.

January 21, 2013

To my friends and debate partners and others who care to read what drips out of my mind and my heart…indulge, forgive, raise a brow, or simply pass over. I welcome your thoughts; I really do.

“Rights” irony at its best. On this day set aside to celebrate one of the great leaders of this country, this century, and this planet, the pages of facebook and the blogs and the airwaves are lit up with a critical mass consumed with protecting their own right to bear arms.

I have no issue with the second amendment. I believe it was intended to protect us from tyranny and abuse. The contemporary radicals in this argument would love to have us believe we have now arrived at that point because of the audacity of a few requesting a discussion. Moreover they fear executive actions as downright threatening to them. Really?

Until the last three weeks I have never known a single gun owner who waxed on that his cache of weapons was to protect against government. These once regular folk who wanted to protect their family or those who got some cheap thrill out of killing a helpless and unsuspecting animal and hanging its head on a wall (as if that is something to be proud of …. take a Viagra instead…I digress) are suddenly a band of militants circling the wagons of anarchy. I’ve heard this kind of rhetoric somewhere before…not too long ago…hmmm…oh yeah, it is called Al Qadea. Rage and fear and paranoia of taking something supposedly sacred is worth a jihad of their own. Their histrionics are enveloped in “revolution.” The irony thickens.

Martin Luther King had a dream. A damned good one. One where human rights trumped any other. He hoped we might move beyond a society where others, less than a hundred years before thought it was their “right” to own other humans. And they tried to disguise their barbarism by rationalizing the fight was about State’s rights versus an economic policy of inhumanity.

Yes, less than a hundred years later, only two generations, people like King were still fighting. Not to own a gun or a weapon solely designed to wipe out mass numbers of people, but to vote, or eat, or get a job fair and square, or go to a decent college or sit where they choose on a bus.

Those 2nd Amendment radicals have passion all right. Good for them. Speaking out and calling for revolution. Threatening to shoot anyone who tries to pry their guns away. Irony multiplies; the only thing they are willing to die for is the right to possess an item (or many) intended to kill another.–or based on current laws–many others.

I wonder where they would be if Dr. King was sharing his dream today, for the first time? Would they be demanding time on Piers Morgan and Fox News and asking for facebook petitions to support human rights? Would they put it all on the line for real liberty…the kind that requires courage and compassion and respect and love for others?

The story today should be that civil rights, while still in their infancy, are experiencing some positive moves. To suggest that we are there is a myth. Injustice rears its ugly head in Asia and Europe and in Africa and  in South America and in North Africa and the Middle East and yes, right in in the good ol’ U.S.A.

During a trip home to Florida recently I pulled next to a truck with a triple-gun rack inside the cab and a bumper sticker on window, “The South Will Rise Again!” Another sticker read, “Obama Go Back To Africa!”

I find the artifact and the sentiment often go hand in hand. To borrow an expression from a friend, this guy is a “waste of precious oxygen.” But, he has just as much right as I to take up that oxygen. My guess is that he would draw a similar conclusion about me. Gotta love the First Amendment…even if some of those that follow it (amendment, that is) are pretty bastardized; present topic at the top of the list.

My father fought and killed. He fought honorably but never thought war was honorable. He hated the idea of killing fellow man. He loved the idea of peace and justice and a life of good. He was an angry man though until just a few months prior to his death, when he found a peace with it all. He had seen a lot of death. He saw how strategic interests were used to justify removing life. It begins with and ideology and finds it message carried in and carried out with a gun.

I support the second amendment. My worry is over the motives and true self behind the radicals screaming revolution over removal of their weapons of mass destruction. Listening to them I am convinced they secretly pray for the opportunity to use them one day. It’s in their rhetoric and in their pictures.

Dr. King was asking for the most basic of rights. It took this country almost a couple of hundred years to add human rights to its sacred list. Would you triple-rackers have fought with the same passion for those rights if proposed today? Dr. King had a dream…it is still a dream worth dreaming.

Thank you, good man, for a fight worth fighting.

Cleaning out Mom’s garage during Thanksgiving produced something more than a walk down memory lane. It was a full Swan Dive into some of history’s most intimate and dark and sweet and unknown places. Tucked in a shoebox with pictures and cards and and a P.O.W. bracelet inscribed with Capt. James Nasmith, was this letter to me from dad. Written to me on my first birthday. He was far away, working quietly, clandestinely, in Laos as we prepared to enter a conflict that would change us all. He knew it was possible that he might not return. I learned more about him in these three pages than I did in all the days of his life with me as my father.

________________________________________________________________________________________________

April 13, 1962

Dear Son,

I am writing this on the occasion of your first birthday. It will be many years before you will be able to read and understand this letter, but perhaps someday, when you have a son of your own, you will know what I mean and why I take this method of telling you.

At the moment of this writing, your dad is many thousands of miles apart from you, in a tiny, war-torn country call Laos. My purpose in being here, instead of by your side on your birthday, is in some ways rather complicated. In final analysis, I am her to insure that you and others of your generation may grow and prosper in peace. It is my prayer that you will never have to bear arms against your fellow-man, nor be apart from your son, as we are. 

If, for some unforeseen reason, I never have the pleasure of watching your tottering steps; hearing you call me “Papa” for the first time; teaching you to play catch; and all the other little things that a father looks forward to; takes pride in, and thanks God for–then let this letter show you my love, hopes, and fears for you.

Having been born from a love that was surely conceived in heaven, it is a certainty that you will grow to be the man of whom your mother and I may always be proud. Always remember that what gifts you possess started in your mother’s womb. I will expect you to honor, respect, and watch over her in my place. I want you to know that no man was ever so blessed with a wife as I. Our love was a wondrous thing, and she made me the proudest and happiest man on the earth. When it comes time for you to marry, I ask only that you look for the qualities which make your mother so dear. Don’t look with your eyes–but with your heart. Once you have chosen, love without reservation or question.

When you have reached manhood, face life squarely–admit your fears and rise above them, and never compromise your self-respect for some imagined gain. Temper your life with the knowledge that you are one of God’s children, and live it as He would have you.

I enclose a picture taken this date. When you look at it, remember that I loved you very much, and I am grateful that God saw fit to grant me a son such as you.

Dad

The night was just cool enough to warm by the fireplace in Mom’s den. I opened a couple of bottles of red. Chelsea unwound a hanger and grabbed fixin’s from the pantry for S’mores.

We gathered in chairs and on the couch and on the floor around the fireplace. Four generations of Keyser DNA in the room. I turned on the mic and pushed “record.” This was a project planned long ago and long overdue. An audio legacy to treasure for years to come.

Mom has stories. Lots of stories. We’ve heard them for years and years. One day, when mom is singing and dancing and meeting and socializing with every angel in the next space, we will have her journal of life…to listen to and to treasure here.

We all had questions for mom. Some prepared and others offered on the spot.

“What was it like to be a small child during the Great Depression?”

“Tell me about your hometown…Horton, Kansas.”

“How did you and Dad meet?”

“What are the biggest or most significant changes you have seen in your life?”

The show-stopper question came from Gabi. At a precious 7 years old she is wondering about the less obvious. “What do you remember about snow?” The greatest question ever. Out of the mouths of babes…

Each answer led to string of more stories. A string that wound from childhood through wars and relationships and places and people and souvenirs.

Four hours later, between the wine and the fire’s warmth and the late hour, eyes were getting heavy and our bodies needed rest from the holiday fair. As I sit and mix the audio and add photos and a little guitar music, I smile. I think of a few hours in generational proximity and what that will mean in years to come.

Soon, Chelsea will be on the other side of the planet serving those who have been forgotten and discarded. Logan will finish undergrad and enter service as a patriotic officer and a healer and go to some place to protect the liberties that allowed us to gather in the first place. My heroes.

I will be here, for now, chipping away at a system of care for patients and loved ones and hoping that when I am done that it is a little better for them.

Mom–she will be telling stories.

To my family…I love you all.

Today was my “long run” day. It’s all relative when it comes to working out. Up in the mountains of Eastern Tennessee, getting away to re-discover quiet. A chance to read, think, strum a six-string, write. No television. Out of the range of my Blackberry’s wide net.

It was early morning. The birds still pushing the snooze button. The spiders were pissed that I interrupted them spinning in their silvery hammock. The Sun barely peeked through the the pines and water oak that cover these mountains like Kudzu.

I stretched, tightened my laces, and began the trip that would meander through these mountain roads. Hoping my natural global positioning system (a landmark there, a mailbox there, a torn down road sign) would lead to a safe return.

I have grown to love the run. I love the ride more, but my Trikke was not built for mountain roads and their treacherous turns. At first, the mountain air and the mild burn was exhilarating. It felt great and I knew this would be a memorable run. I rounded a bend to negotiate my first incline. “No problem,” I said to myself. I reached to turn up the volume on my iPod and leaned into it. Minutes later I was saying, “This isn’t a Smoky Mountain road. It’s freakin’ Mount Everest.” I thought I was going to die right there become Nike roadkill. Just when I thought cardiac arrest would set in, a turn, a mild decline, an aerobic slide. It was just long enough for me to tackle another uphill trek. With each uphill stretch I cursed the mountain and my decision to take it on. With each decline or leveling-out I told myself I was King of the World.

I made it back to our little cabin without tire marks on my back or any known injury. The birds laughed and greeted the morning. The spiders were working the morning shift webbing away. I sat on the porch and overlooked the creek and thanked my God for His nature and for allowing my body to endure and grow from the mountain. My mind went immediately to this world and its challenges.

You see, we have had this place of comfort for so long in this country. For many, we were comfortable with our own roads and paths and porches and neighbors. It wasn’t that hard for a lot of us. The world’s problems were only as close as the paper or nightly news made them. But  the mountains were always there. Just not as close. We could take the easy route; ignore or dismiss or rationalize that things are “their problems…we have our own.” I don’t understand anymore why we define ourselves by our geography, by our borders, by our language. The floods in Pakistan, the poverty in the Congo, the violence in Somalia, the unrest in the Middle East, the human rights violations across the globe should all be MY problem; OUR problem. The Long Run may be the one outside of my neighborhood. Outside of my state, my country, my continent, my fictional boundaries.

My prayer: Lord, take me on the Long Run. Prepare my heart. Give me courage and endurance and a great pair of shoes.

I was overwhelmed recently by the enduring expression of love from the man in the booth at Hardees. His wife, gone for months, but he still showed up on their special day each week to have breakfast with her and chat as they always had.

Equally enduring and so incredibly beautiful, I was introduced to the Childress couple last Friday. Lynnette, one of our patient relations reps at Presbyterian Hospital emailed to tell me about a couple who was with us and she heard it was their wedding anniversary: 61 years.

Well, she and the crew, Tiffany, Lindsey, Steve from Food Services, the unit manager, Anne, and others jumped to action. If this couple was to spend their anniversary with us it was to be as special as we could make it. I had to be there.

It was to be a surprise. A rolling table and white tablecloth. A beautifully prepared meal for husband, wife, and their son. Flowers and a card.

We gathered and wheeled in together at 5:30. Once they realized this was a party, their faces beamed in gladness. Mrs. Childress stood by her husband’s side and they bathed in celebration of their long life together.

Lindsey said, “I hear you are a singer, Mr. Childress.” She went on to ask if he wanted to serenade his wife on their anniversary. He pointed to his throat and mentioned something about his voice being a little “crackly” at the moment. We understood. His comment had barely landed on our ears before he began to croon for his beloved. The Desert Song (Sigmund Romberg / Otto Harbach / Oscar Hammerstein II). His voice broke  just a little and he searched for a lyric now and then. As she watched lovingly, she offered a part of a line when it didn’t come to him, which he finished for her. It was a sort of handoff. “…Its voice enthralling…WILL MAKE YOU MINE” he closed in a romantic crescendo.

Smiles and tears filled the room. This was their moment. We got to be there. I wish they could have been in their home for this special day, but it was our honor…our privilege to celebrate their life together and care for them both. Happy Anniversary to the Childress couple. You are what is possible.

Blue heaven and you and I,

And sand kissing a moonlit sky.

A desert breeze whisp’ring a lullaby,

Only stars above you

To see I love you.

Oh, give me that night divine

And let my arms in yours entwine.

The desert song calling,

Its voice enthralling

Will make you mine.

Sometimes the stars align.  An alarm clock set accidentally to an hour earlier than usual.  A last minute change in schedule. Road construction forcing an alternative, and quicker route, to my destination. I was headed to a funeral. Running about thirty minutes early, I decided to grab a bite and some coffee. I stopped at a Hardee’s down the road from the little country Baptist church where the service was to be held.  After ordering a low-carb breakfast bowl and a medium coffee I took a seat at a booth. I can’t remember the last time I actually dined-in at a fast food place. It was meant to be.

I sat and scanned the perpetually streaming emails scrolling in the window of my Blackberry.  Just a few booths away, next to the window, was this guy sitting and enjoying breakfast. He was engaged in conversation. A laugh here and a comment there. At times he was animated and then serious and quiet.

Here’s the thing, though — he was alone.

I tried to appear inconspicuous as I looked for what must have been his bluetooth device or earpiece and a cell phone.

Nope. He was just talking and listening … to no one. My mind went immediately to what must have been a troubled or mentally disabled older man. I wondered what psychological condition could be attributed to his imaginary conversation.  I also thought maybe he just enjoys his own company and might be a little eccentric. Who cares?

I tried to drink my coffee and pay attention to my own small world.

One of the servers was wiping down tables. She smiled as she approached mine and said, “Good morning.” I returned with my own greeting and wished her a happy day. She glanced over at the man by the window and turned back to me.

“He’s really okay,” she said as she grinned. She went on to tell me his story. She shuffled salt and pepper shakers and promotional place-holders while she talked.

“You see, he and his wife came in here every Tuesday and Friday for as long as I’ve been here. That’s been at least ten years. He ordered black coffee and a biscuit and gravy for him, and a raisin biscuit for her. They shared the coffee.” She went on to say that they always sat in the same booth. “They stayed for about an hour and always seemed to have the best time.”

“She died about four or five months ago. We didn’t see him for a month or so after she died. But ever since, he comes in at least once a week, orders his biscuit and coffee. He sits and at some point just starts talking to his wife, like she’s sitting right there.”

“At first we were a little worried, but then I thought to myself…‘What’s wrong with that?’”

I smiled and thanked my new friend for sharing this story with me.

That kind of love…

She is still so much a part of his life that he meets her for breakfast and talks and laughs and shares his morning with her.  It’s the stuff of movies. No, it’s the stuff of life for a loving husband on a morning in a small country town.

The stars aligned and I got to be a spectator in this sweet and enduring adventure of love.

That kind of love…This kind of love.