Green Frog Coffee Company

HITTING AN OUTHOUSE WITH A GOLF CLUB

2010-02-27T08:42:00.003-06:00

Something has been haunting me all week. It is a story a Christian friend of mine shared about something his young son accomplished. My friend is having a home built and his wife recently received a call that someone had seen a young black man enter the porta-pottie on their property and he had been in there for quite some time. So my friend's wife and young son drove to the construction site armed with a golf club. Smiling, my friend told about how his son walked up to the porta-pottie and with a mighty swing struck the plastic side of it as hard as he could. He said immediately there was a loud scream and within seconds a young man with painted nails who was dressed funny scrambled out fearing for his life. My friend said his son was so proud of himself and others around me laughed. I thought, "What a picture of who we as Christians have become."

We live in a world overrun with humor. We have even learned to use humor to disquise our sin. If you know me, you know that I love to laugh more than anybody. But this simply wasn't funny. Here was a young man struggling with sexual identity, perhaps homeless, certainly confused, now afraid, and thankfully he met some Christians...who had a golf club.

I am not writing to attack my friend but rather to let all the Green Frog Blog fans out there know that God spoke to me deeply through this story. He reminded me that Christians should not cherry pick who we love. He also reminded me that we should check our hearts often and compare them to His. He never wielded golf clubs, he never laughed at the wounded, he simply loved us all.

Which is more repelling, a young man who acts weird and needs counseling, or an afluent Christian who goes to church but still takes there swings. Again, this speaks to me deeply. When we meet these needy people we should remember how lucky they are that we have come along because Christ live in us....doesn't He?

We've watered down what it means to be a Christian to make it more comfortable. I'm sorry if I am being rather blunt but I needed to get this off my chest...and into my own heart. I pray that this helps us all who humbly seek God.

OUT WITH THE OLD, IN WITH THE NEW

2010-02-25T12:08:00.003-06:00

Ja Ja's was the birthplace of my dream of a touch of country with a touch of class. This endearing location offered some of the best scenery and ambiance in West Tennessee but unfortunately never offered cash flow. Although it will always hold fond memories for me and several other people, I have decided to close Ja Ja's effective 5pm February 27th. But there is some good news.

I will be opening a second location in Jackson that will offer the convienence of a drive-thru window and a 16 flavor ice cream dipping cabinet. The new location will be in the new Flash Market on Hollywood Dr right next to I-40. I am shooting to open this location by March 22nd. This will hopefully serve several commuters who travel the 412 corridor. We hope to see you there!

More good news is that I will be reducing our ice cream prices by 20%. A new contract for cream with Turner Dairy has made this possible. I wanted to pass the savings on to you. We will also be reducing our tasty grilled cheese sandwich by 25%. Another price cut will be our new daily dollar menu which will feature one of many of your favorite items for only a dollar when you buy a large drink. These are savings up to 33%. We will also be adding Mississippi Mud Cake (Fly Pie) and Apple Pie A-la-Mode to the menu. So more selections and better bargains at Green Frog Coffee Co.

Don't forget we still offer our portable coffee bar for larger events. You will get to see our coffee bar in action at the Jackson Farmer's Market every Saturday morning from May 1st- August 31st. We hope you stop by and see us at our coffee bar, in our downtown store, at our Hollywood Drive location, or in Dyersburg across from Lowe's next to El-Patio. Green Frog Fans keep us in business. We are thankful for you and will continue to try to meet your needs and expectations. Star who? The buck stops here! Maggie who? The ice cream starts here!

THE LESSON OF A SNOWMAN

2010-02-20T18:58:00.004-06:00

Love, like water, comes to us in many forms. Romance erupts like a thunderstorm from the clouds, piercing our hearts with its thunder. Friendship gathers like daily dew in the morning quenching our thirst in small ways. And the love of God falls like snow in silent beauty covering our crimson wounds with His forgiveness. In this strange life love is often enhanced by harsh, cold realities. Against the background of winter love comes to us in the darkest hour, into the coldest heart, revealing God's undeniable beauty.

My love of winter runs deep and wide. As most children, I cherished snow days, bowls of warm chili, and cups of steaming hot chocolate. Yet I was prematurely aware that winter was more than a pause, it was God's season of rest-for all of us. With longer nights forcing us to retire from days of farm work earlier after harvest had past we found time for each other. And as if we were being pleasantly punished, the occasional ice storm marched us to family conversations huddled around the pale but perfect light of a fireplace. And the smell of smoke, the smell of pine, and the smell of nutmeg made us pause from the distractions of busy daily life to acknowledge the brilliant plan of discipline by our Creator. God wants us to rest and will use force to make it happen.

Our abundance of snow this winter inspired my inner child to gather a few friends, take a break from the coffee shop, and try to break my personal record of a twelve foot snowman. So one sunny, but cold, afternoon five of us spent four hours rolling snowballs in less than perfect conditions. We actually had to use a flower watering can to moisten the snow so it would stick. Eventually we managed to create our own personal tower of Babel complete with a fifty-five gallon trash can for a hat. Any higher and it would have caused a plane crash.

The next day our giant dirty snowman became an instant celebrity with several people stopping by to pose for a photograph beside the behemoth. One young man submitted his photo with our snowman to a Memphis television station and took credit for our giant piece of ice. The young people who helped me build the snowman were very upset that someone else had stolen their claim to fame. It was a beautiful life lesson that people take credit for stuff that isn't theirs all the time. Al Gore created the Internet. All pie is mine.

The second life lesson followed just four days later when under the cover of darkness someone came and knocked our snowman into the road. I knew it was almost guaranteed to happen. Teenagers cannot resist the challenge of tipping over a monument that would naturally disappear on its own. Cow tipping is a myth. Snowman tipping is real. The lesson here is a very important one: snowmen and pyramids disappear, but love last forever.

We seek to define ourselves by our accomplishments and wrap our lives around the lie that people will cherish the things we leave behind. There is nothing we can build that will last. It will all melt or be buried by the sands of time. What does remain is the love we share along the way. Love endures every season and comes to us in many ways. Love never ceases.

I pray that we all pause while nights are still long and the air is still cold to rest in the fact that we are loved by God. I seriously doubt if our snowmen or our pyramids have ever impressed God. I seriously doubt if God can be impressed. But He can love and be loved. And so can we. You can spend your whole life building snowmen to have someone knock them over or watch them melt. Never fall in love with a snowman, fall in love with the people who help you build it, and a God who provides the snow, the sun that melts it, and the storm that makes it fall again. And remember, yellow snow is dangerous but reminds us we are not alone. Love never ceases.

PARENTS AND PEARLS

2010-01-19T13:24:00.002-06:00

"Did I ever tell you about the oysters? Oysters? I didn't tell you bout the oysters? Think about all the millions of oysters lying around on the bottom of the ocean. Then one day, God comes along and he says, "I think I'm gonna make that one different," and you know what he does? He puts a little piece of sand in it. And guess what it can do that the others can't. What? It can make a beautiful pearl." …from the movie Fried Green Tomatoes

Slavery didn’t end with the Civil War: we all have parents. I’m not suggesting that all parent’s view kids as property but a few have the idea that for a kid to make it in the world today their capacity for work must be tested.

Whereas most kids began boot camp with the simple task of keeping their room clean, my training began deep in a small jungle called a garden. Within this two thousand square foot torture chamber we grew our groceries.

The boot camp was rarely fenced, save a rare electric wire during the years when rabbits were plentiful. To simply keep me at the task of pulling weeds my mother, with switch in hand, sternly warned me that there would be no mercy if the job were not complete by high noon. Our reward was to shuck corn and shell purple hull peas in the shade. I was spoiled.

At times, when morale in the camp was low, my mother would load my two sisters and I into our green car where our bare legs would burn on hot vinyl seats while we drove two miles down the road to Manley’s store. She would give each of us a quarter and let us stick our head in the cooler to look for the coldest RC soda we could find. We’d grab a Chick-A-Stick or a Zero Bar and zip back home to mass production.

Even while trying to catch an episode of Love Boat on a Saturday night, a bowl of green beans to be snapped was placed in my lap to help me relax. I really liked television but my fingers were always too sore to applaud any genius in script writing. I was basically held hostage by vegetables.

I favored watermelon. This king of the garden required very little care and just one of these giants equaled all the blackberries I could pick in a lifetime. There was also some sinful satisfaction in the fact I got to take the biggest knife in the kitchen and sink it into its pink flesh. This green giant was my therapy for a childhood of imprisonment.

It should be no surprise I picked my nose as a kid because I was trained to pick: pick strawberries, pick tomatoes, pick cucumbers, pick apples, pick blackberries, pick okra, and pick ticks off my flesh. I was a picker and proud of it.

But in spite of all the sunburns, all the sore fingernails, all the blood lost to ticks, I found something growing in that garden I did not expect to find… a respect for my owners (parents).

James would come home after ten hours of hard labor and pull an antique garden tiller out of the shed that would never start. After a few pokes with a screwdriver and a can of starting fluid, it would crackle to life, breathing smoke like a dragon. Tilling a garden is like trying to make an alligator eat your grass in straight rows while holding its tail without getting bitten. It requires forearms like Popeye and determination like Wiley Coyote. With the July sun beating down on his sweating forehead, my father did something he didn’t love to do, fighting and struggling with the machine each and every step. Like a knight he went into the cave, but rather than slay the dragon, he trained it. This important summer lesson taught me to fight, even when you don’t feel like it, because other people are usually counting on you to bring home the bacon, or at least the tomatoes and lettuce to go with it.

A few minutes later we’d all sit down and have a five- course meal. Beverly’s commitment to vegetables was unmatched. She would plant them, water them, pick them, shuck them, cook them, cut them, bag them, freeze them, un-thaw them, and cook them again. I once heard in the battle between the rock and stream, the stream always wins, not by strength but by persistence. My mother was a stream, at times water torture, who taught me if you finish what you start you won’t go hungry.

In a way parents are like a piece of sand in our life’s shell, an annoying intrusion that in retrospect is the most beautiful thing that ever happens to us. Through discipline and tough love they prepare us for the art of being faithful in long-term relationships. They teach us the thorn is part of the rose and the race is part of the victory. Our parents, like God, teach us sometimes loving someone involves bleeding on their behalf… sometimes even when they’re the ones causing us the injury.

My parents were patient; my parents were forgiving; and my parents were hell bent on making sure I didn’t go there. Their plan was simple: put Timmy in the garden and make him eat his vegetables and pray, pray that he understands that for anything in life to taste good you not only have to understand where it comes from but also what it cost to get it on your plate. And hopefully he’ll understand that bad taste in his mouth, that sand of tough love, is producing something in him that will be regarded by those who love him later in life as sacred.

Because You Loved Me: by Celine Dion

You're the one who held me up, never let me fall
You're the one who saw me through it all
You were my strength when I was weak
You were my voice when I couldn't speak
You were my eyes when I couldn't see
You saw the best there was in me
Lifted me up when I couldn't reach
You gave me faith 'cause you believed
I'm everything I am
Because you loved me

BYE BYE BUGS AND HELLO CHANGES FOR GREEN FROG

2010-01-13T08:24:00.006-06:00

We have a long, cold, hard, and wonderful winter on out hands…Green Frog is happy. Cold weather does two great things in my life: increases coffee sales and kills ladybugs. Although I believe ladybugs are beautiful, I never fell in love with the idea of them getting in bed with me this Fall. Thousands of "the girls" took over my house and continually kept my vacuum cleaner busy. So during this recent cold snap I held vigil by the thermometer watching the mercury slowly dip ridding my antebellum home of "the girls". A few have proven tough as nails like my mother and in spite of single digit temperatures continue to try to fly to freedom through a quarter inch thick piece of glass. But don’t call them stupid, we as human have a tendency to repeatedly try to do things we know won’t work as well: like opening something and trying to make it fit back into the box it came out of- impossible people!

The cold snap has helped business at Green Frog Coffee. People have been filing in to grab a hot bowl of our delicious home made chicken stew and hot sweet and spicy chili. People are amazed at the fact that you can actually find huge chunks of chicken and beef in their bowl. Because we make it by hand, we can ensure you get your money’s worth. And we guarantee it won’t taste anything like a can.

People are also finding comfort in holding any one of our several custom coffee drinks in their hand. By far the most popular is the Dirty Snowman, a mixture of premium white chocolate, toffee nut, espresso and steamed milk. When I was creating this drink I started by trying to come up with something that reminded me of snow cream from my childhood and then added a shot of espresso to it, thus the Dirty Snowman.

We had a recent dilemma with a white chocolate shipment that got lost in Chicago and we had to deal with two days of not being able to make some of our drinks. Ultimately we solved the problem our self by driving to Chicago in the middle of a snowstorm and picking it up to bring it back home. Our customers mean so much to us that we are willing to go to any length (and distance) to make them happy. My dad always taught me there is a hundred ways to fix something so there is no excuse for it to be broke.

There has also been some confusion over whether or not Ja Ja’s is staying open. Sales really struggle here in the winter months but we are not closing the birthplace of Green Frog Coffee Co. It is simply the coziest, cutest place in America and we know it is just a matter of time until everyone discovers the hidden oasis in Crockett County on Hwy 412. A story about Ja Ja’s and Green Frog Village is airing on Tennessee Crossroads on January 14th and 17th. Check it out!

I am excited to tell you about a few changes coming up at Green Frog. First, we will be adding a new flavored bean to the shelf for brewing your own perfect cup. The Dirty Snowman flavored coffee beans will make their debut in February... and this is this most exciting news since Neil Armstrong stepped on the round piece of butter up in the night sky. We will also be adding a daily dollar menu in February for side items for your large drinks. When you order a large drink, you can get certain items on certain days for a dollar. The special dollar items/days will be- muffin Monday, toasty Tuesday(bagel), warm Wednesday (giant cookie), tadpole Thursday (ice cream), frappe Friday ($1 off large), sausage roll Saturday, and secret Sunday (you'll have to come to find out). We will also be adding cherry danish to the menu as well as Mississippi mud cake. Also, don't forget with our new travel mugs you get 10% off any large hot drink. I think you're going to love the changes.

We are also revamping our website to add a Frogcast (weather feature), update the photos, add information about our catering service, and get our online store working. We should have our Green Frog gift boxes ready by Valentine's Day to ship anywhere in the world. We are excited about the opportunity of Internet sales. We have already shipped T-Shirts to Europe.

Again, we want to facilitate community with our stores. So bring the family, bring friends, or even bring a bible and sit by a fireplace, surf the web, or just stare out the window and consider the wonder of life. We hope you continue to visit our FrogBlog and keep in touch with this miracle in progress. You are a critical part of the story, and it is far from finished.

IF YOU'VE BEEN THROUGH A FIRE YOU'RE GOING TO SMELL LIKE SMOKE

2010-01-06T07:49:00.012-06:00

Let me begin by telling you our first drink served in 2010 was a Dirty Snowman on Saturday morning at 6:01am. I'm proud of that. I also continue to be very proud of that fact that we drove to Chicago to make that happen. A friend of mine in Louisiana tweeted that her favorite coffee shop ran out of white chocolate yesterday. I told her they could get some in Chicago, and they could get a Dirty Snowman at Green Frog on the way up :)

I will also tell you this past year has been a great teacher. It has taught me many new things about life, with the greatest lesson coming as the year closed. I learned if you've been through a fire you're going to smell like smoke. Learn to give others and yourself grace: if you've been through a fire you're going to smell like smoke.

I remember my favorite childhood memory of the smell of smoke wafting out of our chimney on cold winter mornings at 632 Campbell Lane. While standing outside bundled up and waiting on the bus, the wood smoke smelled like God had lit a big candle and mixed it with fall leaves and pine tar. I also recall getting off the bus in the frigid evening and being welcomed by the signs of life and warmth puffing out of our housetop. It's a memory I evidently share with others because some guy tried to put the smell of wood smoke in a bottle of cologne and called it Fahrenheit. Although I really enjoyed the scent, the girls didn't seem to crave it and thus I deemed it worthless at the age of seventeen. I think they should make a new perfume for women called, "Bacon: put a little sizzle in your love life." I wouldn't let my girl wear it because it would draw more men than a Waffle House. Never put nice rims on a car unless you want it to get stolen.

Another fond memory of smoke is of nights spent around a campfire swapping stories with friends while the white trails of smokey ghosts burned our eyes. We found out the hard way that tiny cans of colored Halloween hairspray tossed into a fire are like hand grenades. We made three sleeping bags, a tent, and our clothes look like Swiss cheese with the flying hot embers. At the time we didn't necessarily understand the monetary loss but instead choose to just say, "Wow! Cool!" Upon returning home everything I had wreaked of smoke. Even after a good shower the smell was still there. I walked around for about three days smelling like a smoked ham, and it was rather pleasant.

There were others forms of smoke in my childhood. The stove popcorn fire of 1981, the broiler hamburger fire of 1979, and the numerous nights of burning trash outside in our rusty metal barrel. But I learned the smoke that stings the eyes the most comes from the fire that burns not wood or food but rather the fire that burns heart.

Just yesterday morning with the temperature hovering around ten degrees a mother with two small children and a baby came in the coffee shop in distress. They had been walking outside for several minutes because their car had broken down. The baby was purple and the two very small girls eyes were watering and they were severely shaking. I could tell they were scared. The mother ask to borrow my phone to call somebody. I tried to comfort the little girls and gave them some free hot chocolates. Diane gave them a muffin and eventually they thawed. I was so upset when I saw them I had to go to the back to dry my own eyes. I could tell the mother was struggling with what was happening in her life: cell phone not working, car not working, three kids to feed, desperation, fear. Life had piled up on her, and the fire was burning.

The fire has been burning for me too. I actually decided to close Ja Ja's after several months of weak sales three days ago, but after trimming the fat, decided to keep it open five days a week. I love Ja Ja's but it has been a challenge as the Recession took its toll. The new hours will be from 10am-5pm Tues- Sat. We will have one employee there, so please give her grace.

I also have a very dear friend who is going through a very difficult time in her life. My relationship with her has made me search for ways to comfort her. She grows impatient with her progress through her problems at times, sometimes moving too fast, sometimes moving too slow. I've tried to calm her frustration by reminding her that she has been through a fire and she is going to smell like smoke. The biggest surprise was I found even myself getting frustrated with her slow response to my advice, which is when I realized I needed to listen to it as much as she did.

When we love someone we often have unrealistic expectations of recovery. We believe someone who has been in an emotional car wreck should have a smile on their face even if their jaw has stitches. We believe that kids who have been reared in an environment absent of authority should instantly grasp respect and discipline. We believe that if we give the wounded a little medicine we solve all their problems when actually we are just clearing up a few symptoms of the cancer. Life has a way of inflicting serious, painful "burns" that take years of care to overcome. We forget that wounded people smelling like smoke for a long period of time is normal. We forget they have been through a fire when the flames are no longer visible. I forget to give people grace. I need it. You need it. We all need it. Grace is not only loving people who smell like smoke, it is loving people who are still on fire, even if we get burned. If you deeply love people who are hurting, you will get some ashes on you and suffer a few burns yourself in the process. Love can be dirty and dangerous.

I think we tend to get frustrated with wounded people struggling to change because we are still deeply wounded ourselves. Seeing results makes us feel good about our investment, reaffirms we know how to make good choices. Making the investment should make us feel good about the investment. Love is like hiding a hundred dollar bill in a random box of cereal and believing someone will find it, and believing it will make a difference when they do. Love is a seed. Our awareness of our own frailty equips us to properly care for and plant that seed. A good farmer is always humble. He never looks at his crops and says, "Look what I did." The good farmer falls on his knees and says, "Thank you."

Humility is a common denominator of all great acts of love. Even the Son of God humbled himself into the likeness of a man. The minute we believe we are fireproof is the minute we start burning. Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego never believed they were fireproof. They understood God may or may not choose to save them. There faith in God's ability to save them enabled God's power to protect him. And when you read the story (Daniel 3) we find the fourth person in fire with them. Wow! Cool! And guess what else? They didn't smell like smoke. Why? Because God not only can get us through the fire, He can clean us back up as well.

I love the smell of smoke, wood that is, any other smoke is alarming to me, often because it comes from my own fires of the flesh. I find myself going to God more often for a cleaning. I pray I find myself enduring more often within His protective presence. I want my life to also be a testimony to the fact that "no other God saves."

P.S. The photo I attached is of a friend of mine's business that unfortunately burned over the holidays. The irony in the photo is the bay window. Look close and you will see a snowman survived the fire. God can get you through it too. No other God saves.

THE DEATH AND RESURRECTION OF THE DIRTY SNOWMAN

2009-12-19T13:03:00.004-06:00

On Monday Dec 14th, five hundred miles away from Green Frog Coffee Co, a storm was brewing in Chicago. It would be a storm that would later be referred to as the Dirty Snowman Disaster of 2009. It would eventually affect the lives of hundreds of devoted white mocha, Dirty Snowman, and Frostie fans, bringing these celebrated addicts to the brink of insanity. No one saw it coming, until it had everybody by the throat.

Early that morning in West Tennessee everything appeared normal and festive at all three Green Frog locations. Jackson had a great early crowd going crazy for the homemade quiche, Ja Ja's had customers huddled around the space heater drinking hot chocolate, and Java Cafe was constantly pushing delicious hot drinks out of their drive thru window. Customers were happy, employees were busy, and managers were confident. It was the calm before the storm.

By Monday night the store managers had all placed their orders with vendors in preparation for the busiest week of the year at Green Frog Coffee Co. Everything was in place for timely arrivals and a smooth holiday weekend. However, while they were sleeping Monday night, a pallet of white chocolate set stranded on a lonely dock in Chicago, IL as the nightmare came to life.

The white chocolate, supposedly in transit, set unnoticed for three days before a inquiry alerted the shipping company it was not on its way to Dyersburg. All three stores were running low on white chocolate and quickly a plan was in place to avert disaster. But little did Timm realize you never throw a pass to someone who just dropped the ball.

The new plan was a next day air shipment from Dallas, but again someone in shipping coded the order regular ground and instead of flying out of Dallas, it crawled out on a brown truck. The discovery of the mistake led Timm to assume his suppressed personality of "Hammer" when dealing with the shipping company. The two hour conversation led to another new plan for next day air saturday shipping to all three locations, but Timm's confidence was low.

Having dealt with dissappointed white chocolate customers all day on Friday, Timm devised his own radical plan: have someone drive to Chicago and get the chocolate themselves. So at 6:30pm Shawn Smith, a trained barista, and Adam Ozment, a renowned navigator, left Dyersburg in a white 2004 Nissan Truck headed for a 2am dock pickup in Chicago. They bravely drove into the face of the storm, literally.

Loaded with energy drinks, a double cheeseburger, and peanuts they made the five hundred mile trek into a dangerous snow storm but still arrived on time to load their precious cargo of white chocolate just before the trucking company closed for the weekend. They then proceeded to cautiously drive back home on an icy interstate impeded by traffic jams enhanced by the poor driving conditions. After a total of sixteen hours of driving through the night they arrived at Java Cafe at 11am Saturday morning.

After a thirty-six hour period of no white mocha, the first white mocha was served at 11:02am and the first Dirty Snowman was served at 11:06. Meanwhile in Jackson an earlier next day air shipment had arrived where the first Dirty Snowman was served at 9:02. These times are critical in history, the equivalent of when man stepped on the moon, when the Berlin wall fell, and when the first Krispy Kreme rolled out of the glaze. We will always remember this hard yet rewarding period of our story. And yes, we have learned some lessons, and here they are:

1. Don't get people addicted to Dirty Snowmen and run out of white chocolate.
2. Drive to Chicago as soon as you find out there has been a mistake.
3. When you have to tell someone you are out of white chocolate it feels like you are telling them you ran over their cat, twice.
4. College kids are dependable, more so than a big company.
5. It doesn't matter whose fault it is. When you own a business its your responsibility.
6. 36 hours without a white mocha is considered detox.

IS GOD IN A COMA?

2009-12-16T08:07:00.010-06:00

"In the past God spoke to our forefathers through the prohets at many times and in various ways, but in these lst days he has spoken to us by his Son..." Hebrews 1:1-2

Our story starts out in dramatic fashion with God intimately connected to man, his voice booming from heaven. He appears in burning bushes, pillars of fire, and flames from heaven. He is active leading his people, saving his people, and blessing his people. Then over the course of time, after ruling through kings, his voice begins to fade into the prophets and eventually becomes silent. For four hundred years there was nothing from heaven. God must have been up to something?

I have been thinking about how my life has felt the same way. When I first became a Christian I felt like taking a bullet for God and felt he would do the same for me (actually he did). I anticipated it would always feel this way, that me and God would enjoy inseparable fellowship. I thought I would grow closer and closer to God until eventually a chariot swept me away like Elijah, but as I moved through life I felt my intimacy with God fade. It was in large due to my inability to continually grasp the grace of God, leading to a burden of sin that had been forgiven by God but not forgotten by me. And then these past few years I must admit there has been an overwhelming sense of silence, a deafening void of direction, or as I have recently learned, a dramatic pause.

I am sure the Jews under Roman rule were also wondering why God the father had stopped speaking. I am sure Joseph and Mary were quite surprised to find out that rather than screaming from heaven God planned to break the silence with a whisper through a child. The plan was genius: approach man through a man, and maybe he will listen. God had tried everything up until this point to capture the heart of man, and in a deep breath lasting four hundred years he gathers his strength, and then through his Son he speaks the truth...god dwelling in man, intimacy redefined. And he paints us a picture of this intimacy by putting a child, his own son, inside a woman.

The silence in my own life has been filled with me doubting myself more than God. I sometimes doubt I have what it takes to follow God, to be a faithful soldier of the cross. Rather than enjoying my childhood status before God, I get confused and shy away from God because of my bad behavior. Yet as I understand it, when I became a Christian God began dwelling in me by his spirit, God planted himself in me. And the Christmas story reminds me that my scary God is actually a very intimate lover who is very "tender and mild." Even the angel said, "Fear not!" God wants to embrace his children.

Something happened to me two weeks ago that took me by surprise. Without saying too much, let me just say, God put someone in my life. I've been praying for someone for years and too be honest, got tired of asking. I'd almost given up on the idea of living my life with someone and was getting comfortable with the idea of never sharing a closet. But two weeks ago God revealed something to me that utterly dumbfounded my sense of his capacity to reveal his love to me. When i thought he wasn't listening, he was preparing not only my heart but someone else's too.

The four hundred years between Malachi and Matthew "appeared" to be a great period of silence but the scriptures reveal that it was quite possibly a period of great activity, it even hints that the angel that came to Mary might very well have encountered resistance. And even if the message was easily delivered, the preparation of that message took a considerable amount of rearranging by God. He had to take time to shift political power to the Romans and remove himself (the church) from political power. God wanted to arrive incognito, under the radar, not to escape scrutiny, but rather to escape preconceived misconceptions of who He is. He entered our world at a time where he was unlikely to be worshipped thus protecting him from the curse of celebrity as he quietly built a reputation of godliness and compassion. With the church no longer in power Jesus then went about demonstrating a different kind of power defined by love, servanthood, and humility. The stage was set perfectly for his introduction, his ministry, his crucifixion, and his resurrection. God may have been silent, but he wasn't in coma.

Christmas reminds me that God's way are not my ways, that He is always active although sometimes quietly, and that He always keeps his promises. Perhaps you too have felt the silence of God. Remember just like a great dinner takes time, a great plan takes preparation. I pray that in this time of waiting you will look to the east and follow the star to the truth: God is in you. I pray that you will approach the story of the birth of Jesus with a new awe and understanding but even more that you would approach God with the knowledge that He is near and approachable. God's craves intimacy even more than we do. He devised a plan to literally hug us and then jump into us. Never make the mistake that God is not actively loving you. He may be silent, but He is definitely not in a coma. Merry Christmas from Green Frog Coffee Co.!

SHE HAD A HOLE IN HER THROAT BUT NOT IN HER HEART

2009-12-04T20:10:00.003-06:00

Two days ago I received the news that my dear friend Tara Stover had gone home to be with our Savior. Tara often referred to herself as "Trach girl." Her bought with spinal cancer at a very young age and other complications led to her having a permanent tracheotomy and stunted growth. She was required to carry an oxygen bag with her wherever she went. But she didn't stay at home.

I met Tara when she volunteered her time to work with Young Life in Dyersburg while I was on staff. I had no idea how strong she was. Her body was fragile but her heart was resilient. I have never been more honored than when I discovered she had requested that I speak at her funeral. I wanted to share with all of you who are following me how much Tara meant to me by sharing her eulogy. Tara is mentioned in my first book, Chainsaw Preacher, on page 128.

I am honored to have been asked by Tara to speak today. More honored than if this were the funeral of Mother Teresa, to me Tara was a true saint.

I underestimated Tara the first time I met her. We all underestimated Tara. Tara was like a little brave King David with a slingshot: size didn’t matter. If you knew Tara you knew she was feisty, determined, and set apart by God for something special. Her Goliath was never her illness, it was pity itself, she hated pity, and she slew it with her inner strength.

We are here today because this little girl with a huge heart impacted our lives, this tiny, beautiful girl with a hole in her throat, impacted hundreds of people. There are exceptions to every rule, Tara taught us that. The rules say a girl with a trach doesn’t love like this. Look around this room: Tara broke the rules.

Today we celebrate her life. Tara always planned on living. She went to college, got her master’s degree, and even a full time job. She even got her own place. I remember four years ago she wanted to have a pool party, the girl who couldn’t swim wanted to have a pool party. It was a great party even though almost nobody swam. Tara just wanted to be normal, but she wasn’t normal. She was better than normal. Better than most of us.

The girl who could have easily lived her life like a charity case did exactly the opposite, she volunteered to work at charities. She used what little strength she had to help those around her. She volunteered her time to make videos and to take pictures, and she was good at it. She enjoyed seeing people happy, and that was the mark of God in her life. Tara walked in faith, living life, never grieving her disability, she just wanted to live, and she would want us to live too.

Thoreau said he did not want to come to the end of his life and discover he had not lived. Tara lived, and she will continue to live through us.

Because of Tara, we have no excuse for not loving others. If a four foot eight girl who weighed eighty pounds and drug around an oxygen tank can make this big of difference, what can we, abled-body people, do.

Jesus said come to me and I will give you life. Tara got her wish Wednesday morning when she floated into the arms of Jesus: she got life. She is still living life, still making plans, and I can see her up there, smiling shaking her little finger saying, " if I can do it you can do it."

If all of us here did a tenth of what she did for others the world would be a hundred times better. She changed my life. I am fairly sure she changed yours. The only question is whose life are we going to change. Laugh, love, and live in honor and memory of Tara Stover. Big things come in small packages. Amen

THE SOUND OF MUSIC

2009-12-03T13:49:00.001-06:00

"I have no idea to this day what those two Italian ladies were singing about. Truth is, I don't want to know. Some things are better left unsaid. I'd like to think they were singing about something so beautiful, it can't be expressed in words, and it makes your heart ache because of it. I tell you, those voices soared higher and farther than anybody in a grey place dares to dream. It was as if some beautiful bird had flapped into our drab little cage and made these walls dissolve away, and for the briefest of moments, every last man in Shawshank felt free."

………from the movie Shawshank Redemption

I grew up with a lot of sweet sounds in my life: bacon frying, window units, Paul Harvey, crop dusters, fireworks, school bells, oven timers, power tools, attic fans, and country music.

Today the multi-talented, naturally beautiful, and totally transparent Taylor Swift rules the radio and directs the dreams of young men (I have both her Cds), but in 1980 it was a woman named Dolly.

Dolly Parton grew up in a dirt-poor town called Locust Ridge nestled in the hills of the Smokey Mountains. She was one of twelve siblings who lived in a rustic one-room cabin. She met her husband, Carl, at the Wishy Washy in downtown Nashville at the age of twenty while pursuing her music career. His first words to her were, “You’re going to get sunburned out there little lady.” My first words to Taylor Swift would be, “If I was twenty years younger, you wouldn’t be single.”

The first song I remember hearing Dolly sing on the radio was “I Will Always Love You.” I heard it on a portable transistor radio swinging as high as possible with a grape Popsicle dripping down my bare chest. I don’t recall exactly what had upset me, but I was feeling lonely. I was trying to fight back the tears but ended up letting them go, making sure my sisters didn’t see me turning into a puddle. It was as if God put on a blonde wig and sang me a song. That song was like a tender kiss, and thus my love affair with country music was underway.

My favorite childhood memories come with a soundtrack of country music, a soundtrack created via am radio, occasional vinyl 45s, and low quality speakers. But in the spite of the fact it flew to me on broken wings, it was always strong enough to lift my spirits. Eddie Arnold’s “Make the World Go Away” has never sounded better than it did while riding in a green Dodge pickup truck with a chainsaw under my feet on the way to cut firewood with my father on a Fall Saturday morning. I miss hearing Tanya Tucker’s “Delta Dawn” crackling through an antique radio on hot, humid summer nights while lying on my back watching fireflies with the smell of strawberries still on my lips. And I still dream of those magical spring campfires where Jimmy Dean’s story of “Big Bad John” came to life on a portable hand held transistor radio when the smoke gave me an excuse to cry. Even though I now listen to all of these songs in high quality on my I-phone, I wish I could push a distort, crackle button to make it sound like they were singing in a cereal box again.

What I loved then is what I love now: the story telling of country music. A good song is like a mini movie for those of us with attention deficit. Depending on when and where I first heard a song, determined how it changed my life.

Inspired by the song “Convoy” there was a time in my life when I wanted to be a truck driver hauling logs and hogs, running from “bears” and “smokies.” Thanks to the song “Patches” I believed I too would lose my father to fever, take over the farm, but stay in school because it was “Daddy’s strictest rule.” “The Coward of the County” got me ready to fight for my girl even if my dad was giving me bad advice from prison. And “Teddy Bear” inspired me to search on my hand me down CB for crippled, fatherless children who needed money and a ride in a truck. I lived my life under the influence, not of drugs or alcohol, but the influence of good music.

Country music taught me about love. “The Rose” taught me love is a river and razor, a hunger and a need, a dance and a dream, and a flower and seed. “Ring of Fire” taught me love is a burning thing that makes a fiery ring, and eventually I would fall into this fire, and the flames would go higher and higher. “The End of the World” taught me when I fell under it’s spell, the world would go right on turning, even though my heart was burning. And “I Wouldn’t Have Missed It for the World” taught me love comes and goes like the wind and all good things must end, but just to see her smile would make it worth my while.

It would be years later in college before I went to my first country music concert. My college friend Bill dragged me to a post prime John Conlee show at the Oklahoma State Fairgrounds. John showed up about three hours late, which gave the three hundred people waiting nothing to do but drink. One of these three hundred people decided it would be fun to roll down three sections of concrete stairs and had to be carried out in an ambulance (the guy almost made me spill my hot chocolate). Once the concert started I sat and watched about ten forty year old women climb an eight-foot chain link fence to get to a pair of rose- colored glasses John was wearing. He sat there and sang the whole song watching them trying to get to the top. It reminded me a lot of Saturday morning wrestling.

Every music genre has it’s own unique set of fans. But country music has children, and I was one of them. Like a mother it sang me to sleep; taught me about love; and mended my wounds. Like a father it showed me how to do things; pushed me to try hard; and made me believe in myself. And like a grandfather it helped me laugh, inspired me to dream; and, when it was time, showed me the healing power of tears.

I have come to believe all of our lives are set to music, and sometimes, when we are lucky, we hear it; and sometimes yet, when we are blessed, we get to share these songs with the world. Once we hear it, we are ready to love ourselves. Once we are ready to share it, we are ready to love others.

MIRACLE WHIP AND MERCY

2009-11-24T08:02:00.010-06:00

As a kid I grew up experiencing a very typical Thanksgiving complete with the traditional turkey dinner and a family running around in socks and sweatshirts. At school, the holiday meant the best cafeteria lunch of the year and construction paper art projects that were a welcomed break from English and Math. My favorite projects included making black pilgrim hats with gold buckles and hand turkeys out of corn and dried beans. The fact the pilgrims had belts on their hats instead of their pants might have been the first clue they would need help from the Indians.

Television in the 70's portrayed the Indians as savages bent on attacking covered wagons, and who could blame them after we broke every treaty we ever signed? When it came to breech of contract I was the same way: when my cousin and sister tried to walk away from the field of play when it was my bat (verbal contract) I picked up the pitching mound (a brick) and threw it at them! Gravity saved their life.

So this portrayal of the Indians as saviors during Thanksgiving was quite interesting. Their get- together with the pilgrims probably had no pumpkin pie, no cranberry sauce, and probably no turkey because the foods simply weren't available. For me, if there is no Miracle Whip for the turkey you can just throw the whole dang meal in the trash. Yet in spite of the lack of traditional food and a football game, they celebrated survival...that's right survival. And isn't that the way this whole year has felt for a lot of us?

Back in January it looked like I was about to conquer Starbucks with my fancy slogans of "Star who, the Buck stops here," and unique drinks like the Dirty Snowman, but then the economy slithered into a deeper recession in spite of the debut of the Fricken Sandwich. By May, sales had dipped 40% and the big dream was starting to fade. My father stepped in with some assets and I bought out my partners and reset things with the bank. It wasn't until October when I saw signs of life. It has been a hard year and the old Tahoe is going to have to last a little longer.

Whenever I felt a little overwhelmed I pulled out a book entitled Night written by holocaust survivor, Elie Wiesel. I don't recommend it for the faint of heart. The book details a man's experience in the concentration camps during World War II. It's a tremendously sad story with graphic detail and it is not afraid to ask hard questions. How could God let this happen? How could God watch a million children go up in smoke, literally? Yet then I thought, which is worse, to watch a million children massacred or watch your own son crucified by the ones he came to rescue? (For great discussion on these topics read Phillip Yancey)

I read about the holocaust because Joan of Arc always said, "There is always somebody who has it worse than you." At the time I always thought, "This does nothing to help me feel better about only getting one bowl of chocolate pudding." Little did I know I was probably one of the luckiest kids on earth. A candle seems small, until you know the darkness.

First I want to come to God's defense about the horrible state of the world, not that He can't defend himself. I believe God's heart is broken by what is happening in his creation. I also believe there is more at play than simply rearranging a few pieces. I'm sure the free world (meaning a world were mankind is allowed to do anything he wants) is quite tempting for someone who has unlimited power to invade, to pick up bricks and start throwing. My favorite film, Schindler's List-a movie also about the holocaust, has an interesting dialogue between Oskar and Anon when Oskar is trying to talk Anon out of killing children. Oskar says that real power is having the ability and authority to kill but choosing not to, that restraint is harder than throwing. For God to invade the world would surely mean devastation to far greater numbers of people than it would help, but instead of invading he saves, instead of running through the streets with a sword, he crawled through a barn with a child. God limits his own power, he restrains himself.

Second, in spite of the delay of my dreams turning into reality, in spite of my own insignificant suffering, I plan on celebrating my survival Thursday. All three stores shows sign of life. Monday two men were praying at Green Frog with their Bible's open when I walked in with the Sam's order. Last week at Java twelve girls huddled around three tables pushed together, talking about this Child who crawled into their lives. This past Sunday an employee from Ja Ja's sent a text that said if we look to God we will be delivered. The signs of life, something to celebrate, something to be thankful for.

I am thankful for my kind, hardworking staff; for my loyal and "faithful" customers many who have become close friends; but most of all for a loving God who practices restraint when it comes to dealing with me. I have always heard never scream for justice because "you" might get it. I think if I scream for anything it will be mercy. (crying, don't know why but writing this last sentence was very powerful, it almost felt like I was a child who has been struggling against my father but who has collapsed in tears into his arms to be comforted) Mercy. Give me mercy. I am grateful for His Mercy.

So we took gifts from the Indians and celebrated life... and then we killed them. God knows how it feels. I'm sure a lot of people who have ever been betrayed, know how it feels. But do you know how it feels to create something on behalf of love and then watch them kill each other? Do you know how if feels to have the power to stop it but enough knowledge to understand that by doing so you will destroy more than you save? Do you know how it feels to be accused of not loving when loving is all you ever do? Do you know how it feels to be powerful and merciful and be accused of being weak and heartless? We owe the Indians and God an apology...but remember God isn't really interested in hearing it (prodigal son story) He just wants to hold us in his arms and have a feast to celebrate our survival.

P.S. When we sit down at the banqueting table in Heaven, don't be surprised if I ask for Ketchup if we have steak... and Miracle Whip if we have turkey. They'll have it, because it's gonna be perfect.

CHRISTMAS PARTY FOR GREEN FROG CUSTOMERS

2009-11-18T20:52:00.003-06:00

You hear me talk a lot about my dream of a helping build community through coffee. Well, I have an idea. What would happen it we closed all three stores early Sunday, December the 13th; called a caterer for a massive meal of great traditional food; invited our best customers, employees and their families; gathered together in a really cool log cabin dining hall; and had a time of sharing and celebration? And what if we could help some people in the process? Well, I'm doing it!

On Sunday, December the 13th, we are closing all stores at 4pm and heading to Green Frog Village on HWY 412 for the best Christmas party ever! You can arrive at 6pm with your friends/family and have your photograph taken in an antique sleigh with Santa; walk into Ja Ja's for a small cup of hot chocolate or Dirty Snowman; go tour the first decorated log cabin (with roaring fire) and drop off your canned goods for RIFA; go to the second decorated log cabin (with roaring fire) and drop off your toy for Carl Perkins Child Abuse Center; go to the log cabin dining hall and enjoy a candelight meal cooked by Blackberry Hill Catering; let your kids make a natural Christmas ornament in our craft section; listen to us encourage our employees and even compliment your favorite barista yourself; and then join us in the old fashioned chapel for a few Christmas Carols and a look at the true meaning of Christmas. It will simply be a time of sweet fellowship with friends and family.

The cost is $15/adult, $7.50/child (ten and under), and will help cover the cost of the meal and create some proceeds that will go to Dyer County Transitions a non-profit that helps provide housing and mentoring for women in crisis. Tickets will be available at all three stores beginning the Friday after Thanksgiving. Seating is limited to the first 90 guests. Don't miss out on an incredible night of what will surely become a wonderful holiday tradition.

BUTTERED POPCORN WITH A BUTTERFLY BREEZE

2009-11-15T17:39:00.007-06:00

Whitney and I visited the church I recently spoke at today. I warned her that the church was lack luster in appearance but made up for it in it's authentic grass roots feel. I also warned her that people might assume we are "together" in spite of our age difference and be prepared to ignore the questions or be ready to respond with "we're just friends." The last time I was there a woman suggested I meet her 19 year old grand daughter. I didn't have the heart to tell her I was twice her age. (Yes I know my crush Taylor Swift is only turning 20 in December)

We scrambled in a little late and immediately were greeted by a smile from Clarice, Clarice as in the Silence of the Lambs Clarice. This was how she introduced herself the first time I met her. It worked: I remembered her name.

I was a little nervous about Whitney going with me because The Path openly struggles with worship and Whitney is accustomed to great worship just like I am. I told her the one guy who dresses up in a suit tries to play the piano and it can get a little tough. After some trouble with the overhead projector, Jason said, "If you came here for fancy church you came to the wrong place. Here things are out of place and out of the ordinary." Then the piano player piped in, "And out of tune!" We all laughed.

The worship actually turned out to be two guitarist and a decent vocalist. One guitarist's face was a little beaten up from his ultimate fighting championship fight the night before. We sang I Saw the Light and Amazing Love. It wasn't bad and I actually paid attention to the lyrics. The piano player I liked played the offertory hymn.

The best thing about the service was the two kids who collected the offering. One was wearing an AC/DC T-shirt and the other one was wearing Star Wars: a rocker and futuristic warrior collecting money for God. Almost everyone was dressed casual. I myself was in jeans, while Whitney got herself fairly cute looking.

Jason talked about where we take our concerns and worries and used quite a bit of scripture. I was paying attention but couldn't wait to get home and write about AC/DC and Star Wars.

When we got back to my house we spent some time admiring my Ginkgo trees and looking around the old estate I live on. It was a perfect Fall day that concluded with us eating at Applebees and me learning about why older women use a lot of conditioning cream. When I got home I took a two hour nap that was so good it felt like I was sleeping in warm buttered popcorn with a butterfly breeze.

I had snapped a photo of our shadow while we were walking around earlier and started thinking about what God was teaching me today. It had been a rather busy week followed by a coffee bar for the West Tennessee Health Care Foundation Saturday night. We handed out Dirty Snowmen in a room full of bow ties and black gowns. Then today in church I was staring at AC/DC and Star Wars. And now, I'm looking at this shadow.

In this shadow you can't tell what we are wearing, you can't even tell if we are smiling, but you can tell something is going on. I often feel like this with God: you can't tell what He is doing, you can't even tell how it will change you , but you can tell He is up to something. Paul said "We see through a glass darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known." I often wonder what God is up to in my life. I often wonder what He is trying to tell me, and probably dying to show me. The problem is I have trouble listening and paying attention. I'm like a six year old in math class distracted by a cookie in my pocket.

John said, "We love Him because He first loved us." I want to be more like John and a lot more like Jesus. They both were very loving individuals. They both openly loved the people around them and had no problem making sure the people around them felt their love. Proverbs says hidden love is worse than open rebuke, or that not telling someone you love them will kill a relationship faster than fighting. I'm fairly sure that part of what God is up to is softening the heart of Timm Johnson and giving Timm Johnson the wisdom to openly love the people in his life better.

I've been thinking about how that shadow is a mixture of the sun and us facing the sun. The shadow wouldn't exist if either the sun or we weren't there. I've thought about how great it is that we get to be a in an incredible mixture, in a relationship, with God of the universe, and that in some ways it resembles us, but more than anything it gives God the glory. We are privileged vessels of the incredible love and light of God, vessels created in the image of his majesty. And I've thought about how one day we will stand before the King, comprehending his full love for us, understanding why he loved us, because as we stare into his beautiful face we will finally see what the King has wanted us to see all along.....the resemblance.

After I hug my Father for a while, I think I might go lay my head on a cotton candy pillow in warm buttered popcorn with a butterfly breeze, because I'm going to be tired from all that smiling.

IF LOVE IS BLIND, I'VE STILL GOT A CHANCE.

2009-11-11T06:26:00.004-06:00

If love is blind, I've still got a chance. I wrote that last night in the book I'm working on. I admit I enjoy laughing at myself. Sometimes I look in the mirror in the morning and I'm sure my forehead is growing. I tell people my hairline isn't receding, my eyebrows are just falling down.

I'm single and this tends to lead me to comparing myself with other single men, or you might say I like to square off against the competition. Of course I'm comparing myself to people like an unshaven George Clooney, a young Robert Redford, and a tall Michael J Fox (I'm just trying to make it a fair fight). All these men have been seen with women I would marry.

I was thinking about this comparison thing last night holding two travel mugs trying to decide which would be better for our new discount program. They differed in color, in weight, in size, and in price. The test for how well they performed revealed they were also very different in what they could do. The test didn't go the way I expected but it got me thinking.

I used to think a good friend of mine had said, "Comparison is the thief of joy," but actually I think it was C.S. Lewis, not that me and C.S. aren't great friends. This is probably the smartest thing a human being has ever uttered. Comparison turns community into competition and friends into foes. Comparison is a way of self mutilation practiced daily by people who are overwhelmed by the need to fit in. I believe one thing the Kingdom will eventually reveal is an equal appreciation for diversity. One day we may celebrate our personal handicaps.

Practically speaking, I started thinking about how I rob my own joy by taking something perfectly beautiful in it's own right and shoving it next to something to be dominated, like taking a lady bug and comparing it to a rainbow or like taking the life of Timm Jonson and shoving it next to Howard Schultz. Sometimes we are harder on ourselves than anybody else in our own life. I simply wanted to remind you/me that we're beautiful today. Our unique life stands as a testimony to God's creativity. And regardless of what the mirror tells us, there is a God who finds us precious. And his fervent love for us has been demonstrated in a very ugly but beautiful display called Calvary. The mirror doesn't lie, we do.

HUDDLE HOUSE ON STERIODS!

2009-11-05T07:52:00.008-06:00

I went with a friend last night to Shogun's, a new Japanese hibachi grill in Dyersburg. As a big fan of sushi, I opted for a variety tray of raw fish while my friend ordered the steak "show." They were busy, so we sat there for a while. I was so close to the grill I started day dreaming about throwing a couple pieces of bread on the griddle and making myself a grilled cheese. I was hungry.

Our chef/entertainer was Kin. He started off juggling his spatula and fork in an array of amusing flips and clanks. He then moved to flipping a raw egg into the air and spinning it into his hat. Then with a squeeze of some flammable liquid onto the griddle and a lighter, POOF....I lost my eyebrows. The flame was so big it reminded me of my mother's episode with her fuzzy angora sweater and a wedding candle, hence her nickname Joan of Arc.

As I was driving home stuffed like a turkey, I thought, "That place is just a Huddle House on steroids." They had a lot of similarities: griddles, fire, spatulas, eggs, and direct cook observations. Heck, if the Huddle House cooks could balance a spinning egg on their head they could start charging twenty dollars for hash browns.

I also started thinking about how several things in life are simply modifications of something else: Shogun is Huddle House with tricky cooks; the tricycle is a bicycle with three wheels; the television is a radio with a picture; the automobile is a buggy with a motor; and sometimes the Christian is a loveless person governed by a set of morals.

I sometimes try to live my faith by believing I just need to simply modify my normal behavior and it usually involves a list of don'ts: don't smoke (love the candy ones), don't drink (I'm a Mountain Dew man), don't dance (can't anyway), and don't curse (often substitute dang and break pens). I believe if I am practicing discipline in these areas I am a successful Christian, sadly, even if I am loveless.

Two verses in scripture haunt me. One is in Proverbs and says hidden love is worse than open rebuke, or not telling someone you care is worse than screaming at them. Wow! Sometimes I laugh about this and say, "Well I should tell Taylor Swift I love her," but then sometimes I cry about this because I know I have squandered opportunities to be light in darkness with encouraging words. The other verse is in James and it says to know what good to do and then not do it, is sin. This is simply powerful...overwhelming to my spirit.

To me this means rather than a list of don't(s) dictating my life, a list of do(s) should be. When I know a friend is struggling I should call. When I see a child drop their ice cream I should stop their tears with a new one (gravity's fault anyway). When I see someone in the town gossip, I should stop and make them feel valuable. When I see good to do, I should do it.

Although Jesus was a very moral person, he was more known what he did do than what he didn't do, and when it came to rules or people, he choose people. When He saw good to do, He did it, and this is a higher law, this is more than spinning an egg on his head and cooking waffles, this is the secret to life to the fullest: rather than be loveless with rules, let love rule.

P.S. If you go to Shogun's, take marshmallows and suntan lotion.

UNDER CONSTRUCTION

2009-10-23T16:35:00.005-05:00

I was at Sam's on Tuesday and passed by the book, The Shack. A hundred friends have told me to read it but I simply ignored their pleading. I was headed for a 200 pack of Mach III razors and since I was about to drop $150 on keeping my face smooth, I thought I could spend $10 on a book. And this is where it gets interesting.

Last Sunday a friend of mine invited me to speak at his church. The Path is a new church plant by the Dyer Baptist Association. The building was donated, or abandon, by the former members. The church literally died. As Jason took me on a tour he pointed to books on the shelf, diapers in the pantry, and coffee creamer on the table. It was as if the people had disappeared and left a fully furnished building.

I started my message like I always do, "Here is a trustworthy saying that deserves full acceptance: Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners- of whom I am the worst (I started crying). But for that very reason I was shown mercy so that in me, the worst of sinners, Christ Jesus might display his unlimited patience as an example for those who would believe on him and receive eternal life (crying harder). Now to the King eternal, immortal, invisible, the only God, be honor and glory forever and ever. Amen." I could have stopped right there but I had something else to tell them.

I spent the next fifteen minutes telling them I am man who is prone to wander, a man who needs spiritual discipline to keeps the wheels on, a man who struggles with loving God and loving people. I told them how I am working toward defining my life by my love for God and my love for people, and how I hope that this is what defines their new church start up. I told them the paneling on the walls and the burgundy carpet to some may look like the sanctuary needs an update but to me they could choose to preserve it allowing it to serve as a testimony that they have decided to use their finances for more important things. I asked them to pray for me and I would pray for them. I said, "I'm not sure who needs it most, probably me."

I thought a lot about that empty church later that afternoon. The church decor reminded me of my younger years at Madison Baptist and the people who loved me growing up. I thought about how people disappear and I thought about how our love for God and sinners disappears even when the people stick around. I'm sure some of the members died, some of the members left for the fancier church across town, and eventually one Sunday two people were sitting there looking at each other. But it was here, at The Path, I felt God more with 20 people than I have I have felt in a very long time. God was there, in the middle of paneling and burgundy carpet.

I've been struggling to finish my new book because frankly I've been needing a jolt of God, and Sunday prepared the soil of my heart for some very dear time with God this week when I read The Shack.

Earlier, when I was checking out at Sam's, I noticed a woman buying tons of canned vegetables. She had a cute little girl with her. I looked over at the little girl and asked, "Do you eat your vegetables?" She smiled at me and shuffled her feet. Her mother replied, "We're getting ready to make stew." After our exchange the girl kept watching me and smiling. I told her bye and she waved. I love kids.

After stopping by the Jackson store and Ja Ja's on Tuesday, I started reading on my drive home to Dyersburg. I know...stupid to read while driving. I am a multi-tasker, can't help it! Anyway, I read eighty pages, and cried three times. The book is about a guy who has an encounter with God, about a guy whose daughter has been brutally murdered by a serial killer named the Lady Bug Killer, about a guy who has a lot of questions for God. The book is amazing.

The problem with reading it for me was every time I read something about the girl's abduction and murder, I immediately thought about the little girl at Sam's. Her face was stuck in my head and it ripped my heart out to think about her being that girl. Once you read it, you'll understand why I was an emotional wreck at the end of it.

There are so many things I liked about the book but one quote stuck in my head, "You cannot produce trust just like you cannot 'do' humility. It either is, or is not. Trust is the fruit of a relationship in which you know you are loved. Because you do not know that I love you, you cannot trust me."

I struggle with trusting God. There I said it even if it is embarrassing. I've always thought of trusting God as a component of my spiritual disciplines, as a result of my effort in forcing myself to be obedient, kind of like eating my vegetables. For example when I tithe I often do it to impress others and impress God, not necessarily out of love for God as a cheerful giver. It just hit me like a ton of rocks that trust is the fruit of the fact I know God loves me. And once I thought about it, I have always been more obedient when I have felt loved, not when I have been motivated by guilt or judgment.

The interesting thing is this removed the obstacle blocking my heart and now I am finishing my next book. When I write, I am not writing to tell people what I have experienced, rather I write to tell people what I am experiencing. I am a work in progress, a soul under construction, if you follow me for any length of time you will learn to wear a hard hat.

I went to Sam's to get supplies for the stores; a smoother face; and I confess, ten pounds of Whatchamacallits. I got the sweet gift of a child's smile, a blessing in a book, and inspiration to trust God more...because he loves me...and you.

THE DEVIL DRIVES A SALT TRUCK

2009-10-22T12:43:00.009-05:00

Chapter 11 from The Chicken Whisperer

I can’t really talk about growing up without talking about snow days. Snow days were God’s way of saving me from the monotony of math and his way of punishing my mother for hiding Oreos in the freezer. For me, these snow days were a welcomed reprieve from sitting still, sitting up straight, and breathing chalk dust. For my mother, these snow days were a dreaded refresher course on what it felt like to be a monkey trying to survive a plunge into a river of piranhas. However, for my father, these snow days were a seasonal sacrament that reconnected his heart with his spirit of survival.

Snow days resulted from two types of precipitation: snow and ice. While snow presented its own set of problems, ice had the power to paralyze a town. And that is exactly what happened in 1976.

When I was six years old a major ice storm shut down our school system for five days when falling trees cut power throughout the county. Iced in, we spent the daylight hours sliding down hills and watching icicles grow. Without power, we spent the nighttime in the dark huddled around our fireplace reminiscing about noodles and barbequed rabbit. After four days without power, our hunger got the best of us and my mother set about cooking a pot of chili in the fireplace. Starving, we patiently watched my mother stir the steaming chili for four hours while we munched on crackers in anticipation of the feast to follow. At the precise moment the chili was almost finished there was a sudden shift in the logs and my mother’s attempt at saving it sent a ball of soot and ash flying into our dinner. It felt like I was watching my dog get run over. Indeed the ash was fatal. We threw it out and snacked on potted meat and pickles. I think I remember crying about it.

Seeing how difficult is was to cook in a fireplace, Timex eventually invested in a wood-stove to ensure his family would stay warm and not go hungry. His memories of frost on the rafters during his own childhood motivated him to often run the wood stove wide open achieving an ambient temperature of ninety. Sometimes my sister’s couldn’t sit in the den because it melted their makeup. Now that he is older, Timex enjoys keeping it hot enough to melt the M&Ms in the candy dish but cool enough to avoid my mother’s fuzzy housecoat spontaneously combusting. It does smoke at times.

Although unlikely, I would love to see my parents retire to Florida, buy a wonderful condo on the beach, look around, and hear my father ask, “Where’s the wood stove? Quarter of million and no wood stove!” I guarantee my dad could learn how to burn pineapple trees and clams in a wood-stove. He’s a genius.

Timex believes the art of surviving in the winter involves staying warm and having a plentiful supply of pecans to shell. Shelling a pecan is like cracking a safe to get a penny. Timex likes pennies. He has a light in his eyes when winter intrudes and he sits in his living room, fire roaring, socks steaming, shells flying, and Paul Harvey talking. He looks like a famished but happy Santa.

When I was child, Timex prepared for our winter survival by cutting enough firewood to heat the Whitehouse and by loading the 1972 green Dodge with cinder blocks for traction. The woodcutting consumed my Saturdays for about two months in the Fall but I didn’t mind being serenaded by a chainsaw and anointed with sawdust because I wanted to be a lumberjack. But before I could throw a hatchet into a tree I had to learn to split firewood with an axe. I broke a dozen wooden handles trying. Eventually Timex got tired of my miscues and welded a metal handle to my axe head. After that, a miscue was like hitting an iron pole with an aluminum baseball bat. At first it felt like I was getting electrocuted and then it felt like someone was sticking needles between my fingers. As numbness ensued, a high pitch ring developed in my ears while my eyes vibrated in their socket. It was motivation to learn to hit my target. Sometimes the way a father affirms his son is by trusting him to do something dangerous but important. At the time it felt like I was in charge of the fort and there were about a million Indians. When he handed me that metal axe handle it was as if he was saying, “Son, I’ll be gone for a long time and it’s going to be a hard winter. I may not make it back in time but I know it will be ok because I am leaving you here.” We never ran out of wood in the winter and now I can slice a tomato with an axe.

While my father showed his love by giving me an axe with a metal handle, God showed his love to me by giving me a long hard winter. My favorite thing to do in the winter was eat supper. My second favorite thing to do was watch the weather forecast for hints of impending icy doom. All I needed was a ten percent chance of snow within a one hundred mile radius and immediately I would start selling the idea of the storm of century to my family, friends, and anybody who would listen. With the bible verse, “With faith the size of a mustard seed, you can move a mountain,” I tried to catapult the small chance forward by begging God on my knees and promising I would serve in his Kingdom. I had no idea He would hold me to it.

With snow in the forecast it was difficult to fall asleep. It felt like Christmas Eve, like I was waiting on Santa to come and leave me presents. I wrestled all through the night, in part because my mother made me wear a t-shirt which I hated, and in part because I was expecting a miracle. My dreams took me inside snow globes to find myself pleasantly trapped and munching on a gingerbread house. My nightmares took me inside greenhouses where I prayed with Frosty the Snowman as he melted in my arms. Shortly after I would wake up sweating in that #$%! T-shirt!

Early the next morning, tired from my dreams and wet from my nightmares, I would crawl out of my bed, wipe my eyes, and rub the condensation off the windows to squint and see a world of white. There, peering through my portal, I would sometimes cry because I believed God was listening.

The next thirty minutes were spent with my two sisters huddled not around the fireplace but rather around the radio. We were simply waiting to hear, “Madison County schools will be closed today.” Those seven words sounded like holy scripture to me and I was aware they were God breathed. After a few victory laps around the house, we were busy layering up with clothes and pairs of rubber boots. I dashed outside as if I was running to meet my bride on my wedding day.

Outside, I was greeted by a completely new landscape. One good thing about snow was it covered all the junk in our yard and made even the most dilapidated shed fit for a fairy tale. I always believed if tax assessments were done on snow days, no one could afford the payment. It was simply the best the world will ever look and the best I thought God could do. Yet with all there was to see, my fondest memory of a snow day was the silence. I think the silence magnified the beauty much like a deaf person has a better sense of sight. The absence of sound helped me listen to my spirit. It renewed me and reminded me there was a heaven and a God who loved children.

The mornings were spent sledding, building snowmen, and constructing forts. The occasional sting of a random snowball to the face would interrupt an otherwise perfect time that ended with hot stew and a glowing red wood-stove. It was after lunch when all #$%! broke loose.

Just as we would be preparing for another round of throwing snowballs, the faint sound of the salt truck would freeze us in place with the look of horror on our face. It reminded me of an old movie where the children are at play when the air raid sirens go off warning that there are warplanes approaching and everyone screams and runs for the bomb shelter. With tears in our eyes, we simply watched the county truck drive toward us and throw salt on God’s perfection. I was never brave enough to look, but I am certain the driver had horns and red tail. The devil drove a salt truck. There were enough of us that we could have ambushed the truck and set it on fire but that would have just aided the melting. If the county was really concerned about safety and kids they would have sent an ice cream truck with a really loud bell.

These snow days, these answers to my prayers, these silent white miracles, were the highlight of my childhood. They brought my family together, simplified our lives, and huddled us around a wood-stove. Without electricity neighbors checked on neighbors, workers stayed home, and conversations and memories came out of the dark. Impeding doom turned out to be a blessing.

One obstacle I know I face is the fact that I am in such a hurry. When it snows I am busy at the coffee shop rather than spending time around the fire eating potted meat and pickles. My life is filled to the brim with business, cleaning, and yard maintenance. My house is beautiful and my life is full but my heart is empty. I sit in important meetings craving stimulating conversation. I sit stoic in church dying for laughter and joy. I sit at home with the TV. on and the radio playing but I sit in silence. My knowledge of real, meaningful conversation is fading into the future. Now I text instead of talk, email instead of entertain, and drive thru instead of sit down. If I am lucky a cold icy disaster will descend upon me and rescue me from my busy life. If I am brave I’ll attack the salt truck. If I am smart I’ll ask God to help.

A SUCCESSFUL FAILURE

2009-10-10T09:21:00.002-05:00

Our mission was called a successful failure, in that we returned safely but never made it to the moon. In the following months it was determined that a damaged coil built inside the oxygen tank sparked during our cryo stir and caused the explosion that crippled the Odyssey. It was a minor defect that occurred two years before I was even named the flight's commander. And as for me, the seven extraordinary days of Apollo 13 were my last in space…I watched other men walk on the moon and return safely all from the confines of Mission Control and our house in Houston. I sometimes catch myself looking up at the moon remembering the changes of fortune in our long voyage, thinking of the thousands of people who worked to bring the three of us home. I look up at the moon and wonder, when will we be going back? And who will that be?

…from the movie Apollo 13

CHAPTER 7 FROM THE CHICKEN WHISPERER

My mom, Joan of Arc, is a northern girl married to a southern man, Timex. It would be very funny to say their marriage was like a tiny version of the civil war but it wasn’t. I can only remember a couple of fights, and one of those put all of us in sleeping bags.

Camping was a compromise between my father and mother after my dad had spent a few too many evenings hitting a softball and was confronted about spending more time with the family. The man worked two hundred hours a week. A weekend of camping helped him relax as much as a weekend of re-roofing the house.

Camping is where you leave the comforts of home (television & toilet paper) to rediscover how a battery operated radio works and how pine cones have multiple uses. Sort of what the pilgrims did, except they did it to escape persecution and taxes. They also almost all died the first winter (hint, hint).

Camping, in spite of its reputation, has several advantages. First, it increases your appreciation of food (takes hours to cook) and cold soda (because the sun is usually hotter than Hades). Second, it gives you a fond affection of shelter, even if it is a musty, damp tent (anything to get away from the mosquitoes). Third it teaches you to honor warnings about flammable clothing (never wear a sweater around a campfire, or if you do, just speed up the inevitable and soak it in gasoline).

To understand camping you divide it into two parts - what the adults do and what the kids do. The adults spend all week planning for the weekend (they usually forget something important like ketchup). Kids spend all week dreaming about the weekend. Upon arrival, adults construct a small city of canvas. Kids suffer a hearing loss and run towards water. Adults start the fire. Kids play in the fire. Adults cook the meals. Kids eat the meals. Adults apply first-aid. Kids get hurt. It’s a beautiful relationship.

Ninety percent of my family’s camping weekends simply involved loading the clan into a 1971 Dodge van and driving a short two miles through our farm to the family lake. Immediately Chris and I would jump out and start making a fort out of pine needles while Terry would start walking home.

A golden rule for Terry was she had to go. She could leave when she wanted to, but she had to go. It was family time. Of course she started walking home as soon as we got there. And, believe it or not, she walked the two miles home on a dirt road reading a Harlequin Romance novel. I guess “Scarlett” thought she was too good to bunk with us wretched farm hands.

Life ran in reverse at the lake. My dad did the cooking. I didn’t have to fight over the bathroom, which turned out to be a makeshift outhouse. There was no bedtime, no grass to mow, and rarely did I have to brush my teeth. It was a place for rowing a boat, sinking a line, skipping a rock, lighting a fire, roasting a marshmallow, and catching fireflies. It was the way father Abraham lived.

Two camping trips were the hallmark of our family’s experience in the wilderness: Loretta Lynn’s Dude Ranch and Walt Disney Land.

Loretta Lynn’s Dude Ranch had everything a kid could ask for: a creek, a pool, a magic show, and a Frostie Root Beer soda machine. The cans were so cold if you licked your hand the cans would stick to your flesh. For several summers this was our destination of choice. My dad even went to the trouble of building a camping trailer out of plywood to store our gear in trying to mimic an aluminum pop-up trailer. Loaded with a week of supplies, it put our little white van to the test. As a matter of fact, during our first attempt to climb the hill at the entrance to Loretta Lynn’s, the clutch overheated and filled the interior with smoke. Everybody probably thought we were a bunch of hippie’s smoking weed. We actually didn’t make it up the hill and had to get a little help from a ranch hand and a tractor. I wasn’t embarrassed. I was just glad the Pringles didn’t burn up.

While my dad started adjusting the clutch and my mother got busy setting things up for our week of fun, I’d put on what I would wear for the entire week- a pair of swim trunks. I’d run down to the creek and dive into the icy water where I lived for seven days. I got out of the water to roast hot dogs, eat Oreos, and drink Frostie root beer. It was a trial run of Heaven.

We really didn’t do anything the whole week except catch a few camp shows at night. A guy named Ricky Rebel would sing a couple of songs and then a magician named Phewy Lewy would saw someone in half or pull a rabbit out of his hat. I grew up raising rabbits and wasn’t too impressed with the rabbit trick. I could put two rabbits in a cage and show you 200 a week later. I’d also seen my father saw off his own body parts and just tape them back on.

On the hill, along with the camp show, were the rich people with their fancy Airstream campers (all aluminum luxurious RV’s built to last a lifetime) hooked up with electricity, running water and sewage. Literally their RV’s were a little nicer than my house. Ok, I’m kidding…they were a lot nicer than my house. My dad, however, is a genius who can build anything. He built our house… by himself. Building a house requires several people, unless you’re Timex. Imagine if one person had built the great pyramids, they might be a little less than perfect. So our house has imperfections but is unique and belongs in a museum.

The fact he had built a house gave him the courage to build his own Airstream. He went out and found a couple of old axels, took a welder and made a trailer. He then took a camper that fits in the bed of a truck and bolted it to the trailer. Then he took plywood and built a shell around it. To authenticate the Airstream look he painted it with silver roof paint. We took the invention to Florida.

We pulled the six thousand pound contraption with a 1972 green Dodge pickup with no air and an AM radio. I think we got about four miles per gallon while we drove 45mph for thirty hours to get to our first KOA stop in Tallahassee. My two sisters and I rode in the back of the truck, blinded by the sun glaring off the silver paint of the camper in tow, all the way to Florida. We turned a few heads in 1983.

We did the whole Florida thing. We went to the beach and drank some salt water and ate some sand. After almost drowning, we put a few seashells for souvenirs in a zip lock bag for later (should have never opened it when I got back). We drank some fresh orange juice at McDonald’s and ate some fresh seafood at Long John Silvers. We went to Walt Disney Land and discovered Mickey Mouse can’t talk.

We limped back home because the camper started having axel trouble and the truck started having engine trouble. The truck pulling the camper was the equivalent of a remote control car trying to pull a diesel truck (with the brakes on). The only thing worse than riding in the back of a truck across a hot Florida highway is riding in the back of a truck that is not moving. Like Apollo 13 we began to wonder if we would make it back home. This was the critical moment. Would the homemade axel hold? Would the truck engine survive the intense heat of the July sun? Would the family dehydrate before re-entry? We made it back and celebrated by eating a steak and ravaging the salad bar at Western Sizzlin.

A successful failure, you look at life and a lot of things don’t work out as planned. But in those moments of challenge we forge some of our finest memories. A family who suffers together, stays together. We were tested and we all passed. We learned often what brings us comfort in the midst of discomfort is the trust we have in those around us. It is our decision whether we stay or leave, just like it was Terry’s. If I were me again, I’d climb back into that truck and do it again, not only because in some weird way it was fun but also because in some weird way it was fundamental to my story.

Our family time was called a successful failure in that we returned home but never perfected the art of traveling around the country in our homemade Airstream. In the following years I have determined our limited resources prevented us from achieving our goal of becoming professionals. It was beyond our control and impacted most of my childhood, in a positive fashion. As for me, these early years of camping were not my last… I have continued to confront the elements and assume the challenges nature presents. I sometimes catch myself staring into a campfire and remembering my changes of fortune on our family trips, thinking about the parents who worked so hard to take me there. I look at the fire and wonder, will I continue to come back? And who will I bring with me?

TIMEX- THE SCREW HARVESTER

2009-10-07T19:43:00.008-05:00

I was pushing 200lbs of groceries out of Sam's the other day when I walked by a shiny new black Ford Zephyr. Interested, I peered through the smoked glass to check out if it had a radio. The Zephyr has come a long way since 1979.

Thirty years ago I was six feet tall and in sixth grade. I was in love with my teacher. Making perfect grades was just as much about impressing her as it was about impressing my parents. Simmer down, she was single, and we were the same height.

One day I found out my mother was picking me up at school and I was relieved just to know I wasn't riding the bus. The bus was a difficult place when your tall and awkward. It felt like riding in a tank with a bunch of rabid squirrels. And I was the nut.

I couldn't believe my eyes when my mother pulled up in a brand new baby blue Ford Zephyr. The fact that my parents would spring for a new car was a sign of hope that they were slowly adjusting to the twentieth century. Beaming from ear to ear, I quickly assumed my position in the back seat and started memorizing the dash- big slick gauges, speed control, air conditioning, a rad.... where's the RADIO! My dad opted out of the radio to save money!

It felt like someone gave me a bunch of french fries with no ketchup. Kids today probably would think having no radio is like opting out of the steering wheel. "Oh,give me a silver Hummer with chrome rims but lets knock off the steering wheel to keep it under $50,000." My dad was frugal, he understood the meaning of sacrifice, and he believed in torturing his children.

Six years later, I put the baby blue Zephyr on its side in a steep ditch. With no radio, I left for high school one morning with a portable five inch television/radio combo. Not only could I listen to music but I could also watch Good Morning America. Well, while I was trying to watch the weather I ran off the road, and of course I blamed it on a non-existent drunk driver. Sorry Mom and Dad.

It's weird that you can now buy a car with a television already in it. A friend of mine and I tried to pioneer this concept way back in 1989. I discovered the warning on the back of an old t.v. picture tube that says "risk of electrical shock or death" is no joke. I had decided we could pull the tube out of a television, cut all the wires going to the tube, put the bulk of the t.v. in the trunk, extend the wires, and mount the screen in the dash of my 1984 Dodge convertible. I'd be the only kid in town that was cruising around watching the Waltons. It was a great idea until, while I was cutting the wires, a blue flame wrapped around my arm and punched me in the face like Mike Tyson. Capacitors are real folks. Leave them alone! My arm was numb for four hours.

So I was obviously worried last year when my Dad bought a 2008 Dodge Ram pickup. I just knew it wouldn't have floor mats, a tailgate, or a radio. It wouldn't have been a shock if it didn't even have a truck bed, but to my surprise it had all of these annndddd a CD player. He even got it fixed when he ran a mailbox down the side of it three weeks later. Don't tell me people never change.

A few months ago the miracle I was talking about in an earlier blog involved my father helping me navigate the difficult waters of the Great Recession by allowing me to use his farm and house as collateral. Let's just say he affirmed me financially. I never saw it coming. Don't tell me people never change.

I love my frugal father. The man who harvests screws before discarding appliances has a mystique about him. He is legendary in his own right. The man builds furniture from trees. He still burns wood in a stove. He refuses medical care and he is Baptist. He cleans his ears with a pocket knife. He believes helping his neighbor means growing an extra garden and killing Blue Jays with a pellet gun. And by the way, his nickname is Frog. He got it from the Jackson Fire Department because of his deep voice while dispatching.

I have many memories of Frog, who I call Timex because of his ability to escape death and disregard injury. He is a man of few words. We have thirty years left together if he lives to be 105. Our time is short...and I must unravel the mystery of the man who is my father. I must go deeper into the forest to find the spring. The winter is coming and laughter by itself will not keep me warm. I will keep you posted.

KING KONG LEFT SOMETHING IN MY YARD

2009-10-06T07:23:00.017-05:00

One of my morning rituals is to take a quick peak at what is new on You Tube. Typically I scan through the favorited or feature videos. This morning a featured video was the birth of an elephant named Riski. In spite of the fact I grew up on a dairy farm, the next five minutes were a roller coaster of emotion as I watched an intense struggle for life in the middle of an intense puddle of fluids. Woke me up better than a cup of coffee. Ruined my breakfast.

Hungry but queasy, I walked outside to observe my pair of Ginkgo trees in the front yard, one male and one female. The female Ginkgo trees have a reputation for smelly fruit, a mix between rotten eggs and dog feces. And this year is a boomer crop. I read in the news that several cities are removing the trees from their parks and sidewalks because of the foul fruit. I also recently found out that 1 in 100 male trees goes through a metamorphosis and also produces the smelly fruit. Well I just figured out I won the lottery: both my trees have a bumper crop of rotten eggs!

Ginkgoes were originally planted because their wonderful green fanned shaped leaves turn bright yellow in the Fall. These bright leaves typically all fall off within about a 48 hour period, leaving behind a fantastic yellow skirt. It is almost as if someone shoots the tree and, like a cartoon cat getting hit by a cannon ball, it reveals it's bones. I think I might sit on the porch this year and wait for the gun to go off. At least the sight of the majestic yellow frenzy might compensate for my yard smelling like King Kong took a squat.

Yet this is were it gets serious. Within this Ginkgo dilemma is a lesson for life: hard things often lead to beautiful things. Blessed are they that mourn for they will be comforted. Blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs' is the Kingdom of Heaven.

I have a heart for the poor because four years ago I had 37 cents to my name. I am now far from wealthy but I fell asleep last night in a king size bed staring at an electric fireplace. I have a heart for the homeless because four years ago I was homeless. My stint at homelessness involved me intruding on my parents or other friends for a place to sleep for about six months while transitioning from ministry. While working part-time as a barista at Java Cafe (the real beginning of my dream of Green Frog Coffee) I slept on a mattress on the floor in a garage of a house for sale. I remember several nights in the garage wondering where my life was going and at the same time being thankful for what God was teaching me. It was during that time that I finished my book Chainsaw Preacher.

Two recent events involving customers prompted me to write this post. One was a homeless couple simply seeking a place to land in between what were probably difficult nights. The gentlemen appeared to be quite a few years older than his younger pregnant wife and they were wrapped in mystery. They had been frequenting the shop for a few weeks always scanning the paper for affordable housing while sipping on a dark roast coffee. Yesterday this gentlemen began thumbing through my book and started asking me questions. The first question was, "Is Bartholomew still alive?" in reference to a cat I mention. I said, "No. Steve accidentally ran over him two weeks after the book came out." After reading a few more pages he asked if I had an old copy laying around that he could borrow. I told him to take a new one. Ten minutes later he told me gave his life to Lord 13 years ago and just needed to get back on track. Up until this moment they had just been a couple of people taking up a little too much couch for a little too long but after our short conversation I guess you can say- the leaves turned yellow.

Another event happened on Saturday when I was in Jackson outside cleaning off tables and was about to throw away a fourth of a Coke someone had left behind. A gentleman in a long gray beard dressed in a trench coat and dirty jeans approached me and said, "May I have that?" I paused and handed it to him and came inside. A very attractive woman dressed to attend a wedding observed the exchange and proceeded to remind me to wash my hands because of the threat of swine flu. I assumed she was concerned with the man being unclean. I tried to explain to her how we don't let beggars bother customers but admit I was distracted with her perfect face being highlighted by a small smear of chocolate from her fried pie (nobody's perfect). It was an incredible contrast: a thirsty beggar cherishing a swig of Coke and a pretty woman concerned about my safety while helping a thirsty beggar. I left thinking about how while some struggle for life the rest of us sometimes struggle with watching them struggle.

I guess what I am trying to say is don't let the smell fool you. I think life teaches us more often than not that what we see is not always what we get. The smelly Ginkgo turns into Cinderella. Too often we believe that Christians have nice homes and drive nice cars and that financial blessing is a promise to those who "truly" follow God. We forget that Joseph and Mary were once the same as the pregnant couple seeking shelter (perhaps minus a few tattoos). We forget that their Son, our Savior, was also homeless, also hungry, and also thirsty. We expect the Kingdom to be clean and full of pretty people. I have the feeling the Kingdom might actually be clean and full of pretty people but I wouldn't be surprised if it is actually our perspective that has changed and not the people we hate to love who might be exactly the same... and I imagine we'll be fascinated by their yellow skirts.

FRANTIC MOM DEMANDS COFFEE FOR DAUGHTER IN LABOR

2009-10-01T12:03:00.002-05:00

I couldn't resist the temptation to share this. This morning a frantic mother bolted into Java and said, "My daughter is in labor and needs a white mocha!" I looked and here and asked, "Do you need decaf" She said,"No, regular. And make it two!"

I'm not the father of the child but I am beaming with pride because the first smell that child may encounter will be the smell of Green Frog coffee in the delivery room. I always talk about how we want to be a part of people's lives but I never thought we would get this intimate. I couldn't help but smile and wish her well on the birth of her grand daughter.

An hour later I went to Ja Ja's and found Flora plopped down dead center of our walkway into the store. Flora is a long haired white dog that redefines friendly. Now this is something you don't see at Starbucks. I spent some time giving her attention and went around back and tested our new tire swing. I was tempted to jump out in midair like I did when I was about six but realized one small misjudgment would put be in the hospital and I'm not so sure anyone would bring me a white mocha.

Some of you may have heard that Tennessee Crossroads is coming to Ja Ja's to film a story next Thursday, Oct 8th. I hope they capture the Flora and tire swing atmosphere. And I hope you make time to discover this hidden treasure on HWY 412 for yourself. We're now open at 7am and close at 5pm.

THE BULL FROG, DOLLAR SUNDAY, & HAPPY HOUR!

2009-09-25T22:05:00.006-05:00

I began an experiment about a year ago when Paola, a friend of mine from Italy, was living in Dyersburg. He introduced me to a variety of ways to drink just straight espresso. Drinking straight espresso was a challenge for a guy who grew up with a Grandmother who gave me half coffee, half cream, and half sugar. And I had my coffee with Jelly doughnuts.

I finally figured out if I took a full pump of chocolate, a couple pumps of flavored syrup, and a fresh shot of espresso, it created a sort of sipping chocolate with a kick. Just recently I put two scoops of vanilla ice cream in a ceramic cup and poured this over it, and knew I had a dessert that will change the world of dining.

We will start offering these fine desserts for dine in only in October. You can choose white or dark chocolate for your base; raspberry, peppermint, toffee nut, or coconut as your flavor mix; and then of course we will pull a fresh shot to set the mood for the magic. And remember, we make our own ice cream with the highest premium cream on the market. You're not going to believe it until you try it. And to keep it fun we are going to call it a Bull Frog- ice cream with a kick!

We are also featuring a new happy hour for the month of October from 7pm-8pm every night of the week (Ja Ja's will be 3-4pm). You get to upsize for free! A large is medium price and a medium is small price. It includes all drinks! This is our way of saying thank you for being a loyal customer and an important part of the growing community of Green Frog Coffee Company.

I almost forgot to tell you the best news of all... $1 Scoops of ice cream on Sundays for the whole month of October! (cup only, 1 scoop per person, add cone for $.50, additional scoops $1.5O, not valid with any other coupon)

TWEET TWEET TAYLOR

2009-09-24T15:47:00.004-05:00

It is a been a day that started with me twittering, "Fell asleep in crumbs. My dreams were delicious!" I had a midnight snack of strawberry Pop Tarts while texting a good friend of mine. I just found twitter and have enjoyed learning to tweet. I just tweeted, "I love fried chicken and hot chocolate chip cookies." Isn't it strange that we would share something so intimate with the world.

I've tried to remain faithful to my commitment to transparency on this blog so don't be surprised when I tell you I threw a mop fifty feet onto a four lane highway last night and almost ripped my shirt in half as I struck a pose like a ticked off Incredible Hulk. I was closing last night and for some reason beyond reason our new cleaning service left us a mop with a six foot handle, which of course is the reason I knocked a bottle of vanilla syrup off the shelf. For the next thirty minutes, I was on my knees trying to clean up a quart of sticky syrup without cutting myself on the glass. By the time I got through I was about as mad as a bee trying to fly through a piece of glass, the only thing I could think of was trying to throw the mop across the highway to Lowe's. I was stressed.

When I get stressed, I listen to Taylor Swift, she's my therapy (a blog will follow soon explaining). So I went home last night and played a little Swift and tried to do some writing to no avail which is why I ended up lying in bed eating Pop Tarts. I woke up this morning just ready to move through a normal day and not break, or throw, anything. Stress robs us of the ordinary, everyday beauty of things.

So today, with a goal of remaining calm, I've been playing catch up and was just sitting here, drinking a Dirty Snowman, writing, when a friend who is a pastor approached me and said, "I've been busy since I read your book." He proceeded to tell me how he was leading his church toward embracing people rather than ejecting people, not that we would ever actually tell anyone to leave, but choosing not to actively love someone is the same thing. Our conversation led us to a discussion about the woman anointing the feet of Jesus. The part where He says the one who is forgiven much, loves much.

Of course I didn't let on that I've been practicing for mop throwing in the Olympics while he has been out defending the wounded. To be honest I felt sick, literally, about how easily I get distracted by small, insignficant events. I've challenged people to make the world a better place, but I'm busy beating my steering wheel because I keep getting voicemail when I'm trying to call a vendor.

So what have I learned today? I've learned that eating in bed leaves crumbs (tasty too). I've learned that I have a tendency to act like a fool and justify it with laughter. I've learned that our lives, like a wave, set things in motion, and this is something to remember when we are acting like a fool. And I've learned that if we are busy loving others we'll probably never notice the mop handles. The reason I go crazy sometimes is because I'm not doing enough of what makes me happy. As I grow Green Frog Coffee I need to keep this in mind. If a cow eats a lot of weeds his milk will taste like onions.

Love the rejects. Stop acting like a fool (Timm) and get on with it. Be real. Schedule love if you have to. Invest in others, its the only thing you've ever done that matters.

P.S. Follow me on twitter "timmhammer"

THE GIFT OF GRANDPARENTS

2009-09-19T10:55:00.004-05:00

This past week I observed several precious moments of grandparents and grandchildren in our coffee shops. I just wanted to share a chapter out of my new book the Chicken Whisperer as an encouragement for all these wonderful older people to keep making this investment of time.

FRANKIE & FLOSSIE

Most people do not recognize the name Larry Walters. And even fewer people witnessed the event that made him famous. On July 2, 1982 he took forty-five weather balloons; filled them with helium; tied them to a lawn chair; and with a pellet gun in his hand, soared three miles up into history as an American adventurer. After about forty-five minutes he descended safely into power lines causing a temporary blackout in Long Beach. When asked by a reporter why he did it, he replied, “A man can’t just sit around.”

Larry Walters reminds me of my grandfather, a man who didn’t believe in sitting around but believed in making sure everyone else did. My grandfather repaired lawn chairs.

Frank Silkwood’s typical day started with an electric razor shave, a little splash of Old Spice, and buttered toast with jelly. From there, he walked out to his leaning garage; picked out a few aluminum lawn chairs in need of repair; gathered up a few rolls of nylon ribbon; and, under a canopy of plastic flowers, he mended the broken.

Why he collected plastic flowers I’m not sure. It looked like he had robbed a graveyard, but more than likely he was saving the ones that had been discarded. I guess I should have wondered more about where he got all those broken lawn chairs. Maybe he had a secret wrestling fetish?

Going to visit my grandparents in Illinois was the equivalent of the Pilgrim’s Mayflower voyage. My parents believed the eleventh commandment was “Thou shalt not break the speed limit.” The speed limit was 30, 45, and 55mph in the early seventies. I could have ridden my bike faster. I think we left the day after Thanksgiving to arrive on Christmas. My mother packed fresh fruit to fend off scurvy. But the voyage was worth it.

Frank and Flossie’s hearts were softened on the hard anvil of mental illness. Two of their children were diagnosed with schizophrenia. Their relentless love for these children took them on a journey that transformed them into powerful loving people. Not until I was much older did I discover that my uncle Kyle’s disease was often a public affair. He once ran nude through the local cemetery with a butcher knife claiming God had called him to castrate himself. Never once did I detect regret or anger in my loving grandparents about having adult children who in a way never grew up. Actually, their love and treatment of Kyle allowed him to become a talented storyteller medicated with sweet tea and cigarettes. He entertained me for hours with tales about the world, interrupted only by smoke rings.

While I was visiting, Frank would fiddle with a few chairs and then peek into the kitchen to tell Flossie he was taking the “Grands” to get some candy. She would respond by saying, “It’s awfully close to lunch time” or “You’re going to rot their teeth out.” By the time she got the words out of her mouth we were already a block away.

He took us a short distance to a little grocery store called Spontak’s where the best selling items were loaf bologna, cartons of cigarettes, and nickel candy. I didn’t smoke and ate more bologna than a kid in the great depression so I gravitated toward the candy. With a quarter Frank gave me, I tapped on the thick glass case to indicate my choices. Usually I got a handful of Sixlets, a few Now & Laters, a couple of Laffy Taffy, and a Chick-A-Stick. I felt like my transaction was the most important event that would ever take place in my lifetime, kind of like buying a house. The neat thing was Mr. Spontak acted the same way.

On the way back we usually took a different route home and crossed a few bridges where we ran from trolls and the Loch Ness monster. Skipping, we made a few wishes, threw a few rocks, and ate all our candy. Our time was always wrapped in laughter.

Another great thing about visiting Frank was late at night when Flossie turned in he would take us to the kitchen, pull out a loaf of bread, and make us all buttered toast and jelly. Before we destroyed the evidence, a disappointed Flossie would appear in a pink housecoat and say, “Frank you’re going to spoil these kids.” Frank would say, “That’s the plan.”

I still remember hearing Frank was sick. A few weeks later, we got into the van and headed north for his funeral. I was only six. I knew my colors, my numbers, and my alphabet, but I remember being scared, scared of what I didn’t know. Death was something that happened to flowers, mosquitoes and fish. It never really occurred to me that it would happen to all of us.

I remember walking into the funeral home and seeing a bunch of dressed up people, half smiling, half crying, reminiscing and struggling to accept there would be no new stories. It felt like a birthday party with bad cake. Frank was lying in a casket with his arms folded across his chest, his face turned toward Heaven. He was cradled in gray silk against a background of pink roses. I was too scared, but I wanted to touch him as I thought back to the garage where he mended chairs under a canopy of flowers, to the bridge where he made me laugh, and to the kitchen were he spoiled me. I cried not only because I lost somebody I loved, but even more because I lost somebody who loved me.

He was born before the airplane but lived to see Neil Armstrong walk on the moon. He was born before the Model-T Ford but lived long enough to own a Lincoln Continental. He weathered the great depression and two world wars. He survived the Orient No. 2 coalmine disaster and the Tri-state tornado of 1925. He appears to have been here at a great period in history, yet he made me feel like I was the only thing he was ever really waiting for.

During these seven years of my life this seventy year old man taught me hundreds of things about being a kid, and one important thing about childhood: when we lose someone we love, we cry; and when we lose someone who loves us, we learn to weep.

The Porch

2009-08-26T17:43:00.003-05:00

Some of you may have heard about the shooting in Dyersburg a few weeks ago involving Todd and Susan Randolph and a precious girl they allowed to stay in their home for a few days while police investigated charges against her father. In a tragic series of events, the father went to the Randolph's home and shot and killed Todd and the girl (his own daughter). He also severely wounded Susan before leaving and killing himself in a nearby field. The story is beyond sad.

This past Sunday, Susan, now healing, came by Java Cafe along with a few members of her family. Honestly I didn't realize it was her until she approached the counter and said, "Hi I'm Susan Randolph." She proceeded to tell me that Todd and her, along with their five year old son, had spent an afternoon at Ja Ja's before the shooting. With tears in her eyes she continued to tell me how special that time was and, now, will always be. One of her last memories of Todd is of him holding her son's hand and coming around the back side of the porch after leading him around Green Frog Village. She simply said she wanted to thank me for that memory. I was speechless.

Yesterday we had a manager's meeting at my home here in Dyersburg and I asked my managers to share their high points of the last month. The manager's position is quite challenging and often involves hard conversations with employees, tedious details, long hours, and the wisdom of Solomon and the patience of Paul. I listened to them celebrate small but wonderful things like transformations in employees, supply sources working out, and new additions to the team. I then proceeded to tell them about Susan's visit and her experience at Ja Ja's. It took me awhile because I cried trying to tell it. I finished by reminding them to take time to look around the store when things feel a little crazy because there are often beautiful things happening in the middle of chaos. Watching a kid passionately tackle an ice cream cone or a couple have a conversation over a cup of coffee is worth taking note of. My dream has always been we would become an oasis from the harsh realities a life, a place to unwind, a place to think, and place to recharge.

I still remember last July when I bought Ja Ja's and the Green Frog Coffee Co. adventure began. I spent a lot of time on that porch thinking about my own future. The following fall I cooked quite a few pots of chili and stew out on that little porch. Payroll was small back then and so where my worries.

Although we still stir our stew and chili with a boat paddle, we now stir them in a commercial kitchen. We are growing but clinging to our roots. I've never thought about it before but one reason I love our menu so much is the recipes preserve a part of my own personal past. As much as I change, our food keeps me connected to my childhood. When I have a bowl of chili I think back to Saturday evenings watching Hee Haw after a long fall day of cutting firewood. When I have a bowl of stew I think back to cold, snowy days and wet clothes. Those were simple times,but good times.

I've thought a lot about the nightmare of events that happened to Susan's family and what she said to me about helping her preserve a part of her past. I used to believe Green Frog's success would be measured in dollars but now after talking to Susan I'd say she has reminded me my dreams have already come true.