If Home is Where the Heart Is

Saying Goodbye

There are few things harder in this life than saying "goodbye." My mother-in-law refuses to utter the words, instead saying "See you Saturday." This week as I left my home for the last 2 and half years in Colorado; I lost count of how many times I said those dreadful words, "goodbye."

I attempted to ease the pain by reassuring friends and family that we would see them soon, but the reality is that we are never sure what tomorrow brings. As I looked into the misty eyes of many of my closest friends I realized that I only could be saying bye right now because of their friendship. Without their sacrifice of time and care the Church @ Argenta would simply not be.

And yet, the more these people gave themselves to us, making our leaving easier, it became harder and harder to leave. With each goodbye, a sinking feeling grew within me: I may never see these people again. We all must say that final goodbye at some point.

And yet our friends are exactly what makes saying goodbye so hard but possible. It is their love that gives us the courage to face isolation.

Jesus said "Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one's life for one's friends" While his death would certainly be for all mankind, his death was most pointedly for his friends.

While that final night must have been extremely painful, it was also bearable because of his friends. And even though their love seemed to falter, his did not. And it was his ultimate sacrifice that made us all his friend, that will give us the courage to finally say goodbye.

The strength of that courage lies in hope. Because Jesus has shown us that no goodbye is truly final. There is day coming that will never end, a day of homecoming. Another day to look into each other's misty eyes and say "Welcome home!" This is our hope and this is our courage.

We can with true hearts, in the midst of leaving, tell one another "see you Saturday."

Whatever is Noble-2011

As with every year, there are those moments and events that not only inspire, but very well may change one's life forever. Here are those such events for me this past year:

Telluride Bluegrass Festival, June 16-19

My Pastor Eugene is asking us to live 2012 spiritually, to open our eyes to the movings of God in our daily lives. Telluride awakened me to the movement of God is some rather unexpected places. Somehow in a sea of hippies, I found God. Read more about it here.

The Next Step of our Journey

In mid September, Cliff, Michala, and myself had a conversation with a friend in Nashville that drastically changed the direction of our lives. We were invited to join Michael Carpenter and his family in planting a new church in downtown North Little Rock, AR. This oppurtunity has streched our faith, challenged us, but also given us hope. Read more here.

I am a Pastor

While I've been pursuing vocational ministry since 2006, my actual role has been an area of mystery for me. After answering the call to Argenta, I began to explore what it means to be a pastor. Through the example of Eugene Scott and Eugene Peterson's memoir I found myself redefined. A sense of purpose was awakened in me, as I realized this is always who I've been. Read my testimony of this call here.

A New Baby!

Although we found out about the new addition to our family back in October, we are just now making the news official to world. We are so excited for Mary Grace to be a big sister. Although we have some amount of fear about how we're going to do this, we look at our daughter and at our God and smile. Blessed Assurance.

The Church @ Argenta

Argenta Church Support Video from Nathan Willis on Vimeo.

We would love for you to support us, find at more at our website: www.churchargenta.org

A Seat at the Table

This is a re-post of a blog I wrote earlier this year, which in light of Thanksgiving I thought deserved a revisit. Enjoy.

Every Thanksgiving, my family, sometimes as many as 60 people, congregates at Grandma Pierce’s house for a feast  My Dad tells the story about his first Pierce Thanksgiving. He described a washtub of dressing, nine pies, and what he thought amounted to enough food to feed an army. However, he underestimated the appetites of the Pierce army and after taking a nap found my Uncle Jimmy picking the last scraps of meat off of the turkey carcass.

I can assure you that this feeding frenzy we call Thanksgiving has not ceased to be a furious survival of the fittest at Grandma's house.  There is little decorum to these meals, most carry a fork in their front pockets so that they can sample the goods before Grandma prays and we take turns trying to cut each other in line and pushing the capacity of our paper plates to their limits.

Yet there is one aspect of this meal that us newcomers refuse to intrude upon: who sits at the table. Like I said, sometimes as many as 60 people show up for this meal and sit all sorts of places: on stumps, lawn chairs, the floor, but a few, only about four, sit at the table.  These are usually my uncles: Jesse, Steve, Rocky, and Jimmy. Although no one has ever stated that it is off limits to sit there, I wouldn't dare presume to take a chance. Sometimes they do let others sit there, my brother has before and some of my cousins, but none of them lasted very long; my uncles are a tough bunch to sit with I promise you. Throughout my years of sharing this meal, I like my dad, have learned a few lessons, but most of all I learned that you must earn your seat at the table.

Jesus finds himself ,strange enough, at a table similar to my Grandma's. One Sabbath after the Jewish equivalent of church, he is invited to meal at the religious leader's house. There he finds that this extension of hospitality was actually far from it, the host sought to test his guests to evaluate their worth to sit at his table.

Jesus, clever as always, addresses this inhospitable act by reversing the table, pointing to another recipient of the host's up-turned nose, a man with swollen joints. Jesus asks the group what is the right thing to do on this day, to heal or not to heal? The party remains silent, the answer is clear enough but in the answer they find their hypocrisy revealed.

The Sabbath was a day to let go and let God, but they were using it to jockey for position, to earn a right to sit at the table. Instead of showing hospitality to the injured man, they ignore him because he is in their way. Yet Jesus refuses to let them go along in such a manner. Into their silence, he tells them a story that gives flesh to the skeleton of a meal they are sharing. He says:

"When someone invites you to dinner, don't take the place of honor. Somebody more important than you might have been invited by the host. Then he'll come and call out in front of everybody, 'You're in the wrong place. The place of honor belongs to this man.' Red-faced, you'll have to make your way to the very last table, the only place left.
"When you're invited to dinner, go and sit at the last place. Then when the host comes he may very well say, 'Friend, come up to the front.' That will give the dinner guests something to talk about! What I'm saying is, If you walk around with your nose in the air, you're going to end up flat on your face. But if you're content to be simply yourself, you will become more than yourself."

Meals are indeed sacred. They are times when, if we are true to their intent, we are all brought to the same level. We all need meat and bread, we each need sustenance and are utterly dependent upon God and each other for this food. Meals are a time to share our hopes and jokes, time to not only share the gravy but our very lives.

Yet we, like the religious leaders Jesus speaks this story to, have perverted the intent of a meal. It has become a time to hoard as opposed to a time to give, a time to expose our power over another as opposed to a time to humble ourselves, and a time to lament our lack as opposed to a time to praise our abundance. But the beauty of this story like most of Jesus' stories is that it not only exposes our deficiencies, it also offers hope of a better story.

In our humility, Jesus says, we find honor. I said that I never presumed to sit at the table with my uncles; this was not because I had some great sense of humility but because I was scared of them. They are some big bad dudes, but through the years I've sought to honor the men who grew up with my Momma and in small ways I've had some of the honor and even respect reciprocated. And I promise you, those few moments and words have been some of the sweetest in my life.

I think that all along, if I simply had the courage, I could have found a seat at their table, there was always room, because they had no need to prove themselves to anyone, least of all me.

Concerning this story, Eugene Peterson writes, "But these strict Sabbath-keepers had their eyes first on Jesus to see what he was going to do, then on one another to see how they could take advantage of one another. They were betraying the Sabbath in the very act of 'protecting' it.“

And we betray ourselves when we use the good things God has given us to somehow prove ourselves. May we lower our noses and seek the last place and perhaps we may hear Christ himself say to us, "Friend, come up front."

The Next Step of Our Journey

We're going home. Arkansas that is.

In January of 2012 Michala, Mary Grace, Cliff, and I are moving back to Arkansas to partner with Michael Carpenter and his family to plant a church in the Argenta District of downtown North Little Rock. This is in many ways a dream-come-true for us. Cliff and I first began to dream of this day over three years ago as we laughed at the idea of starting a church together one day. Well the laughter soon gave way to hope and eventually calling.

We moved to Colorado with expectations of learning and stretching ourselves in a different culture. While here, we faced some rather difficult truths about ourselves, ministry, and life. But we also fell in love with our God all the more. As we prayed for vision and direction about possibly starting a new church here in Colorado, we felt our collective hearts being pulled home.

So when we were contacted by Michael Carpenter with this opportunity, we felt it an answered prayer. Since that initial talk, we have made the arrangements to leave Colorado and to accept this new call on our lives.

We do this humbly, knowing full well that we need much help for this to happen. First and foremost we have a renewed call to be with God in communion, prayer, and loving relationship. As we have contemplated this vocational calling, we realize that our primary calling is to simply be with God. This renewed sense of purpose has given us a new fire to pray and we ask for you to join us.

Your prayers are our most cherished asset as we move forward. While I will not pretend to understand the full mystery of what happens when we pray, it seems to us that while God is not limited to acting in accordance to our prayers he wants to do so. We ask for you to plead on our behalf.

We also need financial support. We have made this decision in good faith

but we have also counted the cost. There is great pain in leaving Colorado and the people we love here but the joy before us gives us strength to push forward. Likewise, there are several financial barriers before us but we press on in faith. If you are willing and able to help support us, we need help moving. Please email me at mchlgallup@gmail.com or Cliff at cliff.hutch@gmail.com and we will give more information in how to help us.

A little under six years ago, I was near death. A life of self-indulgence and addiction had taken its toll. As I prepared to take my life, love intervened. The love of Jesus spoken through the life of my mother saved me and gave me a new life and a new hope. From that day, I knew that my life would be about that one purpose: the love of Jesus. Pray with us that we could somehow share that life-altering, hope-giving love with our brothers and sisters in Argenta.

Bound to Ramble, part 2

Harold returned to Polk County that fall a new creation. That Banjo had changed him deeply, now he could travel to that special place, somewhere like heaven, whenever his heart desired. Harold loved that hollow-back banjo so much, he gave it name, Verne. The name didn't mean anything in particular, Harold just thought it fit. Harold would sprint the mile and half between the bus stop and their old home place every afternoon so that he could pick on Verne. Sure their were chores that need to to be done, but Harold couldn't help himself, he was born to pick.

Harold's chops got pretty fine, pretty quick with all that practice. Anytime their was a singing downtown, Harold and Verne were there ready. Harold even started playing at church, although he hadn't been in a while, the temptation of getting to play more was greater than his sense of religous guilt. And despite how cold that old Baptist church felt, Harold's spirit would soar when Verne and him took a turn at "I'll Fly Away."

Those two were inseparable. Some evenings they would play on the porch and all creation seemed to join in the tune. The lightening bugs would float on the breeze, the willow tress would sway in rhythm and the stars sometimes seemed to jump with delight as Harold and Verne explored "Uncle Pen," embodying the chorus proclimation, "You could hear it talk, you could hear it sing." It wasn't long before Harold's reputation began to spread, folks who wouldn't dare step into a church were washing there Sunday bests to hear Harold and Verne give new life to the Heavenly Highway Hymnal. The Saturday night singings got so big that they had to move them to the park so everyone could hear.  While all this seemed like a dream come true, Harold became uneasy with his newfound fame and so did his family.

Its hard to nail down when things started to go wrong and especially why. Maybe from the moment the kids started listening to Harold over their Pa's stories, the root of jealousy struck. Harold's old man had struggled all his life to make a living for his family, he worked odd jobs around town, fixing fences, cutting wood, and of course he had been traveling to the delta every summer sense he was sixteen. But nobody ever come to see him do nothing. That boy put a piece of drift wood on a cigar box with leather laces and all of a sudden  Pa didn't matter so much. Unintentionally Pa began to drive the family against Harold, blaming him for everything. Secretly, he justed wanted his boy back, he was scared where all this would take him. Fear and jealously birthed a rift between the two that seemed near impossible to fix.

"Where you off to tonight son?" His Pa inquired.
"I'm gonna play with the Dickerson boys down in the next holler."
"Is that so?"
"Well, I reckon I ain't gotta."
"You dern right right you ain't gotta, there's plenty needs to be done round here fer you go off runnin round."
"Yes sir."
"Just cause you can pick the blasted thing bettern most don't mean you can do whatever you want."
"No sir, I didn't..."
"Don't talk back to me boy," his Pa interrupted, "I reckon it'd been far better had you never started on that old cigar-box."

These exchanges increased in frequency and intensity. What had once been the greatest blessing of his life had begun to drive a wedge between Harold and his family, especially his Pa. All he ever wanted was to escape, to find that place that made him forget his troubles but now instead he just found more trouble. If it weren't his Pa's nagging, then Brother Lee was telling not to stand out too much on Sunday's; they were for the Lord after all not bluegrass, or the ladies down at the auxiliary who thought he should play more jigs, or even Sally, his sister and a good singer in her own right, who thought she oughta to get a chance to shine like Harold. It seemed to him that he hadn't took anyone with him to that place but drove them all away. Of course that wasn't so, the town loved him to death but to Harold all he seemed to do was disappoint.  He wondered where that place had gone to, that place like heaven, it had been far too long since he'd had a visit. Now, whenever he plucked on Verne, his heart twisted in pain. The thing that had once been so good, now seemed broken, maybe it was him, maybe it was luck, but it just didn't work no more.

Harold remembers that night just as clear as any in his life. The pressure of everything had finally gotten him. He lay sleepless in his bed, a bit deranged. His chest felt as if an ox were sitting on it, he found it hard to breathe. And all he could hear in his head was "Man of Constant Sorrow." The words reverberated in his mind, he felt bound, like he was caged in.  The words became him, he wasn't born to pick but bound to ramble. He had no friends to help him now, so he sat up, packed a sack, grabbed Verne and left the town he was born and raised. He left home and with a purity of confusion determined never to return again. Heaven wasn't there no more and he doubted he would ever find it again.

Bound to Ramble, part one

Harold had the bushiest eyebrows in all of Polk county. Folks when they would meet him would always remark about his eyebrows, no matter what else Harlod did. And that was indeed an impressive feat for Harold also played a mean banjo. Harold had been playing since he was just a boy, traveling with his family to the flatlands in the summers to pick cotton. Those kids swore that those summer evenings in the Arkansas delta were as close to hell as any place on this here earth. The humidity was so thick you could slather it on a piece a bread with a spoon. And so Harold began to pick a homemade cigar-box banjo he had made to keep their minds off the heat. At first, The kids couldn't decide which was worse: the pickin or the climate. But Harold, like his daddy, was as stubborn as an old dog and he picked that poor banjo every night after pickin that poor cotton. With callosed and even bloody hands, Harold would struggle to figure out how to roll his fingers in time to make that banjo sing like all the greats. When they were in the hills in the off-season, they could sometimes pick up the Opry on the AM radio if it were clear enough. They had heard Earl Scruggs and Ralph Stanley and in that hearing they were transported, not to Nashville, but to somewhere even better, somewhere like heaven were their troubles weren't gone but understood. When Stanley would moan Man of Constant Sorrow, they knew that pain instinctively. And it was only in that place, somewhere like heaven, that Harold truley felt home, felt alive. He knew he was destined to pick.

And so he picked and by the end of that first summer, he not only had the finger-roll down but he could play a recognizable Orange Blossom Special and for a moment the family forgot all about the Opry and found that place of understanding had found them there in that ghost of a house they filled. Each of the kids got to spend some of the cotton money on themselves, usually they would buy some prize like a coca-cola or if they had had a real good harvest a new pair of shoes. But this summer, they left the coke in the icebox and threw in to get Harold a real banjo, a used one that a friend at the gin got in Memphis, but a real one nonetheless. Years later, Harold would think back on that day, on that banjo and he would still cry. Never had he been so surprised, so happy, so whole. Harold took that hollow-back banjo in his hands and he smelled the wood, cedar. As he inhaled the distinct smell, he knew it was a good gift, the best even. And as he sat down to pick it, the Orange Blossom Special never sounded so good and perhaps never again. When we was done, he laid it down on the bed beside him and nearly prayed over that instrument, "Its so good, so very good." And so it was, for a time.



This is part one of a five part short-story I will be publishing the next five Thursday nights.

A Seat at the Table

Every Thanksgiving, my family congregates at Grandma's house for a feast, sometimes as many as 60 people in attendance. My Dad would tell the story about his first Pierce Thanksgiving. He described a washtub of dressing, nine pies, and what he thought amounted to enough food to feed an army. However, he underestimated the appetites of the Pierce army and after taking a nap found my Uncle Jimmy picking the last scraps of meat off of the turkey carcass. I can assure you that this feeding frenzy we call Thanksgiving has not ceased to be a furious survival of the fittest at Grandma's house.  There is little decorum to these meals, most carry a fork in their front pockets so that they can sample the goods before Grandma prays and we take turns trying to cut each other and pushing the capacity of our paper plates to their limits. Yet there is one aspect of this meal that us newcomers refuse to intrude upon, who sits at the table. Like I said, sometimes as many as 60 people show up for this meal and sit all sorts of places, on stumps, lawn chairs, the floor, but a few, only about three, sit at the table.  These are usually my uncles: Jesse, Steve, Rocky, and Jimmy. Although no one has ever stated that it is off limits to sit there, I wouldn't dare presume to take a chance. Sometimes they do let others sit there, my brother has before and some of my cousins, but none of them lasted very long; my uncles are a tough bunch to sit with I promise you. Throughout my years of sharing this meal, I like my dad, have learned a few lessons, but most of all I learned that you must earn your seat at the table.

Jesus finds himself ,strange enough, at a table similar to my Grandma's. One Sabbath after the Jewish equivalent of church, he is invited to meal at the religous leader's house. There he finds that this extension of hospitality was actually far from it, the host sought to test his guests to evaluate their worth to sit at his table. Jesus, clever as always, addressses this act of inhospitability by reversing the table, he points to another reciepiant of the host's up-turned nose, a man with swollen joints. Jesus asks the group what is the right thing to do on this day, to heal or not to heal? The party remains silent, the answer is clear enough but in the answer they find their hypocrisy revealed. The Sabbath was a day to let go and let God, but they were using it to jockey for position, to earn a right to sit at the table. Instead of showing hospitalty to the injured man, they ignore him because he is in their way. Yet Jesus refuses to let them go along in such a manner. Into their silence, he tells them a story that gives flesh to the skeleton of a meal they are sharing. He says:

"When someone invites you to dinner, don't take the place of honor. Somebody more important than you might have been invited by the host. Then he'll come and call out in front of everybody, 'You're in the wrong place. The place of honor belongs to this man.' Red-faced, you'll have to make your way to the very last table, the only place left. 

"When you're invited to dinner, go and sit at the last place. Then when the host comes he may very well say, 'Friend, come up to the front.' That will give the dinner guests something to talk about! What I'm saying is, If you walk around with your nose in the air, you're going to end up flat on your face. But if you're content to be simply yourself, you will become more than yourself."

Meals are indeed sacred; times when, if we are true to their intent, we are brought to the same level. We all need meat and bread, we each need sustenance and are utterly dependent upon God and each other for this food. Meals are a time to share our hopes and jokes, time to not only share the gravy but our very lives. Yet we, like the religious leaders Jesus speaks this story to, have perverted the intent of a meal. It has become a time to hoard as opposed to a time to give, a time to expose our power over another as opposed to a time to humble ourselves, and a time to lament our lack as opposed to a time to praise our abundance. But the beauty of this story like most of Jesus' stories is that it not only exposes our deficiencies, it also offers hope of a better story.

In our humility, Jesus says, we find honor. I said that I never presumed to sit at the table with my uncles; this was not because I had some great sense of humility but because I was scared of them. They are some big bad dudes, but through the years I've sought to honor the men who grew up with my Momma and in small ways I've had some of the honor and even respect reciprocated. And I promise you, those few moments and words have been some of the sweetest in my life. I think that all along, if I simply had the courage, I could have found a seat at their table, there was always room, because they had no need to prove themselves to anyone, least of all me. "But these strict Sabbath-keepers had their eyes first on Jesus to see what he was going to do, then on one another to see how they could take advantage of one another. They were betraying the Sabbath in the very act of 'protecting' it. (Peterson, 82,3)" And we betray ourselves when we use the good things God has given us to somehow prove ourselves. May we lower our noses and seek the last place and perhaps we may hear Christ himself say to us, "Friend, come up front."

What is the Church? Part 2: A Story

In December of 2005, I lost my life.  It was, in many ways, coming to an end.  I could almost feel the noose around my neck.  My life was defined by addictions to drugs, drink, and depression.  I was simply dark.  But as the Grateful Dead once sang, "you can see the light in the strangest places if you look at them right."  And sitting on a barstool in a frat bar that I bounced at, a friend came to me and asked what was wrong.  It was such a simple question, one that I often answered "nothing" to, but this night I was in a strange place and with whatever shred of hope I had left, I was straining see some semblance of light.  So I laid my troubles before this friend and in his confusing religious speak, something burst forth.  Grace, perhaps.  

Having little choice, I leapt at it.

Two days later I awoke in a Baptist church in Mammoth Spring, Arkansas; surreal, I know.  And whatever it was the burst forth in that bar, exploded that morning.  I fell in love with this person named Jesus and all the things I had done, that had defined me so, ceased causing me pain and finished their torment upon that man.  In my new freedom, all I could hope to utter was a tear-drenched "I'm sorry."  And in that most honest of prayers, I felt the arm of my cousin and the sweet forgiveness of my God.  I went home after the service and repeated the act of confession to my mom, who like our God prior, shushed me and simply said, "I forgive you, I love you, I am so glad you're home."   The invitation was before me in the outstretched arms of my crying mother.

Having little choice, I leapt at it.

Despite being home, I felt like a stranger.  I had never gone to Sunday school, I had never sung "I'll Fly Away," and I had sure never prayed believing that it made some sort of difference.  But this was my new home.  And something special burst forth in this strange place, I became part of a family.  These people had no reason to trust me, no reason to care about me.  I was a recovering addict from God-only-knows-where, but this community, Mammoth Spring First Baptist Church called me "son."  Less than a month in, I was already teaching.  They gave me a place helping out with the 4th-6th grade class.  Little did I know at the time, but those kids would teach me more than I ever taught them.  I could not help but lay awake at night back then and think about what was happening to me.  I once was alone, purposeless, blind, and drunk, but somehow God pulled me out of that mess and put me into a family, I was in every way a new man.  I soon began to to know the stories of this new family and I was invited to become a part of their next chapter, I was invited to dinner, to play music, but most of all, to simply be together.

Having little choice, I leapt at it.

People who were complete strangers a month ago, showed me the Grand Gulf, invited me to pick my mandolin back up and play in front of everyone, got on their backs and crawled underneath my car to see what was the matter, hugged me when I most needed it, and reminded me constantly that Jesus loved me whether they said it or not.  For someone who felt that love had slipped him by, this tasted the most sweet.  I thank God that He loved me so much, that he gave me to this thing called church.  I know these past few years have been both difficult and wonderful and everything in-between but I still made it, I survived by God.  Yet, I still wonder what tomorrow brings, whether or not I will continue this game of survival.  And in the midst of that doubt I sense something strange bursting through, whispering "trust me." And I also see something strange in the beautiful mess that is my church, extending its hand, asking me to come along to suffer and celebrate together.  It is a beautiful offer.

Having little choice, I leap at it.

That High Lonesome Sound

One of my many passions is music.  Although I enjoy nearly every genre, one stands above the rest: bluegrass.  While there are many different definitions of what is or is not bluegrass, anything with a banjo and mandolin makes my heart sing.  One of the many reasons that I cherish Americana roots music is the sense of adventure found in the improvisation. There is something daring and beautiful that happens when a picker takes a turn and lets his fingers dance a bit.  This excites me because rarely can we witness the creation of something so beautiful and also unique, that moment of improvisation is both given and lost in a moment and only the reverberations linger.

There is a soul to this music rooted in the hills of Appalachia, nurtured in the hills of the Ozarks and refined the mountains of Colorado.  When I think on the geographic progression of the music, it mimics my move from the Carolinas to Colorado via Arkansas.  The words speak of hope found in pain seen through the lens of folk tied desperately to an unforgiving and rocky land.  Bluegrass pioneer Bill Monroe defines the music this way: "Scottish bagpipes and ole-time fiddlin'. It's Methodist and Holiness and Baptist. It's blues and jazz, and it has a high lonesome sound. It's plain music that tells a good story. It's played from my heart to your heart, and it will touch you. Bluegrass is music that matters." In many ways, Bluegrass music is the truest form of American music, a melting pot of European and African influences.  It is in our bones and it is in my blood.

My deepest attraction to this music is found in the "high lonesome sound" of my Grandfather Madison Pierce's Dobro (pictured above).  Before he left us nearly 20 years ago, Madison would tune his Dobro and head downtown for a "singing."  there other musicians would congregate to play the standards, a few hymns, and maybe a country song or two.  Everyone was invited to sit-in, there was no set band but you better be ready cause if you got the nod, you better have something to offer.  I am sad that I've only heard stories and seen videos of these singings. Yet, just as talented of a musician as my Grandfather was, so also he could tell a story and that gift in particular has carried down to his family.  My Grandma can bring me to tears merely describing the tone of Madison's Dobro.  That steel whine provides the soundtrack to my dreams.  Oh, I can't wait to pick one out with him one day in glory.  But for now, I honor my heritage and my heart by playing and listening to the music I love dearest.  And this is good because this is true music.  It tells the story of our pain and finds the courage to celebrate in the midst of that pain.  The "high lonesome sound" knows trouble and yet hopes for a brighter day when our tears are made dry.

So I leave you with a sample of that "high lonesome sound."