Vikki – Page 2 – Jeffrey Griffin

Away

Spring and summer have rolled into one gigantic boulder (think “Raiders Of the Lost Ark”) smashing almost every family adventure planned in the dark and cold of winter.

I’m disappointed.

The Ark Encounter in Kentucky. The Louisville Slugger factory. Waverly Hills Sanatorium. Churchill Downs.

Washington. U.S. Capital. The White House and the Pentagon. Mount Vernon. The Smithsonian. National Cathedral.

Chicago. Navy Pier. Millennium Park. Art Institute Of Chicago.

Williamsburg. Jamestown. Monticello.

Back home… The NASCAR Museum. The Downton Abbey exhibition at Biltmore. The day trips and local adventures.

All gone. With good reason, but… gone.

The pool is nice, but how many days can you spend in the water? I’m tired of cooking. I’m over virtual everything. We slept through THE MUPPETS at the drive-in movie.

Waiting and more waiting. College athletics. School as a teacher. School as a parent. We haven’t been to church in months.

My wife is a flight attendant. The airline industry is about as unstable as anything can be.

Our family handles everything better than I do. I worry. I’m frustrated. I’m irritated. They carry on.

There is also much for which we are thankful. Our house is a home. We’re able to go to work. The dinner table is not empty.

The goodness of life and the evanescent uncertainty of trials and tribulations are not lost in the heat and humidity of summer.

We spent last week at the beach. Yes, the beaches are open.

We go to the beach. Neon lights nowhere in sight. The beach. At least fifty yards between us and the next family. The beach. Sea shells. The beach. No life guards. The beach. Dolphins frolicking not too far from the shore. The beach. Sand castles.

A beach where everybody behaves. As best anybody can tell, it is life as normal, except we wore face masks at the grocery store. No big deal.

My heart and mind needed the time away from not being able to get away.

I believe the beach is a magical place. I have no desire to live at the beach. I don’t want the constant responsibility of home maintenance between waves of sun, sand and surf. I like my stuff and I shudder at the notion of our treasures sitting at the bottom of the ocean should a hurricane wash everything away. I cherish the visit, but I’m always ready to come home.

Our children believe in magic. They believe in fairies. They willingly commit to the notions that others label as impossible and unreasonable and outlandish.

They believe in the power of the unseen. God. Wind. Santa Claus.

We find four-leaf clovers. We watch shooting stars. Sophia and Miles believe.

Most years, we find more than our share of sea shells. At low tide, Sophia was exploring a sand bar and discovered a beautiful conch shell. Normally, all the shells we gather belong to the family. I told Sophia, “You found it. It’s yours. I think you should keep it in your room.” She was delighted.

I could tell Miles was disappointed. “I thought all the shells we find belong to the family…”

“Well, normally that’s right. But, Sophia found it by herself and I think it’s only fair if she keeps it in her room.”

Lord, how I hoped Miles would find a conch shell. I got up early and walked the beach. Lots of beautifulness, but no conch shells.

The last day. Sophia was riding waves. Vikki and I were playing in the sand. Miles was practicing his cornhole toss.

I could feel the footsteps behind us.

“Daddy! Did you put this under my chair?”

I didn’t flinch. “What, Miles? I didn’t put anything under your chair.”

He splashed between us and demanded to know. “Well, I was playing cornhole and I went to sit down. This was sitting under my chair. It wasn’t there before. Did you do it?”

A conch shell. Smaller than what Sophia found, but a conch shell.

“Miles! I knew you would find one. You can’t give up. You have to believe.”

He splashed out to Sophia to share the discovery with his sister.

Vikki looked at me. “Alright, how did you get that under his chair without him knowing?”

“I didn’t.”

It’s true. I had nothing to do with that conch shell. The beach is a magical place. Believe.

The moment was more than anything we could have found in Kentucky or Washington or Chicago or Virginia.

The goodness of life is ever-present. Especially in the unseen. Believe.

Not My Child

This is not anything I wanted to write. Ever.

I like Facebook. It’s fun, but my life doesn’t revolve around anybody’s social media updates. A lot of things scroll by on my timeline. Cute. Funny. Sweet. Wholesome. Occasionally, and mildly, inappropriate. A great many things, I dismiss.

Last week. I got a friend request from Raegen Sieck.

Here’s the deal about Facebook friends… I seldom decline. If we have lots of mutual friends, I accept. If not, I look at the profile. Advertisements for high-tech sunglasses and seductive photographs of scantily-clad women are bell ringers. Nope. No thanks. Decline. Decline. Decline.

Vikki Griffin is more selective. She researches every friend request before making a decision. Thus, she has fewer than 300 and I am well over 4,000.

Emily Ruebel, and several more from the Vienna Elementary family, were mutual friends on Raegen Sieck’s Facebook profile. Fine. Great. Wonderful. Accept.

It was time for supper. There are no electronics at the Griffin dinner table. I didn’t give another thought to my newest online friends.

Later that night, I started reading. Raegen Sieck’s posts were surreal.

The Sieck’s oldest child is Lucy, a kindergartner at Vienna. Hold on, Lucy is now a first-grader at Vienna.

Lucy has been diagnosed with an inoperable and incurable brain tumor.

What. The. Hell. Really?

Come on, God. Now, I’m just pissed. A little kid?

The community held a parade. I didn’t tell Sophia and Miles because I’m weak. I can’t wrap my head around trying to explain the situation to our completely healthy son and daughter.

People are buying Lucy Love t-shirts. I’m not. They’re not available in my size.

The Sieck family is off to somewhere for a clinical trial that might save Lucy’s life.

In the midst of everything happening in the world, I have not been able to find a way to tell Sophia and Miles.

I’m overcome with thoughts of a child I have never met while I argue with Sophia about the importance folding laundry.

Miles got a new pair of shoes. The very next day, he came home with muddy shoes. Covered. I couldn’t say much because I was so happy our boy was outside playing instead of dealing with a brain tumor.

For the last week, almost every thought has been prefaced with a singular notion, “not my child.”

I cannot imagine. Just like every other parent in the history of ever, “not my child. Please. Anything but this. I’ll trade places.”

God, I’m sorry for getting angry. I know you’re busy. Murder. Riots. The virus. Storms of every kind.

If you would take a moment and heal Lucy Sieck, that would be great. You like miracles. Now would be an excellent time to remind the world. Just saying.

She’s not my child, but she is somebody’s child.

“Jesus replied, ‘Why do you say, if you can? Anything is possible for someone who has faith!’” – Mark 9:23

4th Grade Math

Our daughter is Sophia. Like a lot people, we’ve been doing the home school thing since March. We’ve found a rhythm. We work.

We don’t take learning for granted. We work at it every day. Mornings. Nights. Weekends. Holidays. Summers. We don’t take vacations from learning and exploring. It’s a family commitment. Whatever one of us learns, we all learn. We teach each other.

Sophia is responsible for her work. That does not mean she is left to navigate the world of E-Learning by herself. She does the work. We go over it together. We discuss the problems. We explain the errors. If we don’t know, we search until we find the best solution. There are no excuses.

Today is the last day of assignments for students.

I’ve been exceptionally frustrated and dismayed with the volume of work assigned in these final days of school.

Perhaps it is a hereditary thread from the Poole side of our family. My mother routinely insisted there was no need to work 30 math problems of predictable similarity if you could solve, and understand, the first ten. She was not a big fan of the Department of Redundancy Department. It was not uncommon for me to take a note to school explaining why my math homework was unfinished.

“Jeffrey understands long-division and we had other things to do last night. I told him to skip the last 20 problems. Thanks, M. Griffin.”

My teacher would fold the note and place it on the desk. I was never penalized for incomplete homework.

Imagine my dismay when Sophia was asked to solve more than 50 math problems of predictable similarity each day last Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.

There were 20-30 math problems each day. Solve each problem in the math notebook. Solve each problem again online. Show your work and solve one problem, again, in a video to be uploaded to the virtual classroom.

Welcome to the Department of Redundancy Department.

I wasn’t happy, but she did it. All of it. We went over every problem. Twice. How ridiculous.

On to this week. Tuesday. Six word problems. Paper and online, but no video. Fine. Let’s get it done.

Imagine my surprise when a grade of 67 was posted for the assignment. My surprise was greater than you might imagine given that only about 30% of her math assignments have been graded during this E-Learning adventure. Sophia has done the work, but she has not received the credit.

I accessed the assignment. Two of the six problems were marked incorrect. I checked the math. The answers were absolutely, positively, 100% correct.

Needless to say, I was frustrated. Vikki reached out to the teacher via email and asked why the responses were marked incorrect.

Apparently… the curriculum teaches a student to “throw away” the remainder in a long-division problem. This is wrong. All the numbers matter. As I explained to Sophia, the cashier at the grocery store doesn’t get to “throw away” the coin change and only deal with the paper bills.

This is precisely why so many children, and eventually, adults, disregard details. Sloppiness is inevitable.

Inconvenient? Don’t bother.

Unpleasant? Skip it.

Incomplete? Doesn’t matter.

The exact wording in the response we received was, “If this was a question on the End-of-Grade test, her response would have been marked incorrect.”

I have news for the world. I don’t give a damn about the End-of-Grade test.

Learn something every day. Work hard. You are responsible for you. Don’t settle for mediocrity. Don’t give up. These are not testable qualities.

The universe can boast of a less-than-glorious history of failing to bother with the inconvenient and skipping the unpleasant and disregarding the incomplete.

Are we content with where we are and how we behave and what we do?

I am not. This family is not. If all we had left in the world was the remainder of a long-division problem, we would build from there. Unless, of course, all we had ever been taught to do was to cast it aside.

The rest of the email response was a lengthy explanation about how grades are calculated and directions on how to divide 100 by 6 to understand the final grade.

It was tainted with more than a touch of sarcasm.

The test is wrong and, perhaps, the corporate teaching leaves something to be desired.

We would rather Sophia learn how to accurately complete a long-division problem than to score well on a bureaucratically-ordained assessment that will have no impact on her successes and failures in the world.

We can live with that.

Memorial Day

Today, our nation observes Memorial Day. It’s not Veteran’s Day. Memorial Day. There’s a distinction.

I want Sophia and Miles to recognize that today is more than “the official start of summer.” I’ve heard that phrase enough times in the last 24 hours to make me throw up. Enough.

Pools are opening. Fine. Great. Wonderful. We’re going to the pool this afternoon.

Massive sales at all the car dealerships. Shocking news. Shocking.

Furniture stores are offering no interest for 60 months. Nothing commemorates death in combat like a new love seat.

The world is ready for a party. I’m not sure that’s the most appropriate way to proceed. I’m in a somber mood.

Veteran’s Day should be a gigantic pep rally. Parades. Fireworks. Concerts. It’s a celebration for the living.

This Memorial Day, and every Memorial Day, shouldn’t we pause to honor those who made the ultimate sacrifice?

“The greatest way to show love for friends is to die for them.” – John 15:13

I was up early today. Vikki was not far behind. Sophia and Miles, always ready for the next adventure, got up without any moaning or groaning.

We headed for the Carolina Field Of Honor in Kernersville.

We paused before each monument honoring the five branches of service. The children read the inscriptions at the base of the flag poles out loud. We rubbed our hands over the shred of steel pulled from the rubble of the September 11^th terrorist attacks.

We got their attention.

“This is not about your grandfather Dave. This is not about your grandfather Richard. This is not about your Uncle David. Your grandfathers were in the Coast Guard and the Army. Your uncle served in the Air Force. This is not about them.

This day is about the men and women who died so you can be free to live your life. Do you understand?”

The ride home was relatively quiet.

Miles headed outside with his Spiderman glove, cowboy hat and cap gun. He stopped at the door and looked back.

“Daddy, do you think I’d be a good soldier?”

“Yes. I hope you don’t have too, but, yes.”

30 Years Late – Part 4 of 4

The headache subsided. Finally. I tried to get on with life.

I got a job at the hospital in Lexington. It was not anything complicated. They let me read love poems on the intercom on Valentine’s Day.

John Cashion was the President of the hospital. He eventually landed in a bit of trouble with the powers-that-be, but he was always kind to me. I ventured into his office one day during lunch and he invited me to return for more conversation. He was always encouraging.

“Jeffrey, go back to school. You could go for business or leadership or health care administration. You would do well.”

Nice words, but I was done with school.

Mike Fenley hired me to work at WSJS radio. He, too, was invariably kind. And patient. He never pushed me to finish school, but I always felt a sense of obligation to do so. I didn’t want to disappoint anymore people.

Vikki and I got married. She went to travel school and earned her certification. My wife is licensed by the Federal Aviation Administration. She has a career. Vikki is a grownup. She finished.

Vikki was flying every week. Sophia and Miles were not on the scene. I was bored. I took a few classes at High Point University. American History Parts I and II as well as a course with a professor that did not speak English. “Jesus and the Gospels.” It was entertaining, but I didn’t learn much I didn’t already know.

It seemed like everybody I knew had long been done with the collegiate experience. They had jobs and families and houses and life insurance policies.

I had an Ebay account and a choir robe at church.

I read the scores to ball games and introduced players.

Vikki and I talked. We decided I should take some online classes at Forsyth Tech. That was charming. And disappointing.

Gathering transcripts. Taking placement tests with kids 25 years younger than me. Discussing my life plan with an admissions counselor that was incapable, or unwilling, to make eye contact.

I had to register face-to-face for my first session of online classes. I asked if there was any possibility of receiving course credit for professional experience.

“What course did you have in mind?”

“Well… Public Speaking 101 comes to mind.”

“Oh no, we couldn’t do that. Besides, that teacher is very good. He can teach you how to prepare to speak in front of large groups.”

“Okey dokey. I was wondering, that’s all.”

“You don’t understand… he has spoken in front of more than a thousand people. You will learn a lot.”

I felt Vikki’s hand on my arm.

I smiled and tried to end the conversation. “I understand. Thank you.”

“You couldn’t possibly understand. Public speaking is difficult, but there is no reason to be nervous. He’ll teach you how to do it.”

“You’ve made that clear. Are we going to register for the class or would you prefer to read my resume?”

Vikki paid the tuition and I wandered outside. I wanted to quit before the first class began. I called Emmett. We’re friends. Emmett threatened me. So, I logged in and went to class.

I’ve watched hundreds of kids leave my classroom and come home a few years later with a degree in hand. I’m happy for them. Really. It also stings. They have done what I never did.

I confess. It’s indescribably disappointing to inquire about an opportunity teaching music or drama and hear, “You’re not qualified. You have no experience. You have no degree. Absolutely not.” It’s especially hurtful when the person on the other side of the desk, or the other end of the telephone, simply isn’t aware. They’re checking the boxes on a form. They don’t care.

I cry easily.

“Jeffrey, don’t take it personally.”

Really? How should I take it? What’s more important, the piece of paper or the talent and the commitment?

It’s not particularly easy to kowtow and fetch for a boss that is young enough to be my child and earning five times the yearly salary on my W-2.

I find a lot of jobs for which I can’t apply. It happens time and time again. The website scans my resume and that’s all there is to that. No degree, no apply.

It’s hard. The responsibility is mine. I fully and completely, without any excuses, accept the consequences of my actions.

The Teaching Fellows. I failed my mama. And North Forsyth. And Dr. Brown.

Mars Hill. I failed Phil Stroud. And Bobbi Jean Harrill.

School Of the Arts. I failed Bill Beck. And Chris Ralph. And Leslie Cobb.

More than anything… I never ever wanted to embarrass Vikki or Sophia or Miles.

Or disappoint John and Mike and Emmett.

Or offer excuses to people who make the world a better place, like Susi and Beau and Donald and Oliver and Jamie.

Everybody else did it and I couldn’t even tag along for the ride. I did not, or could not, finish what I began. What a terrible example for our children. All the friends and all the teachers and all the believers in the world can’t help you if you don’t try to help yourself.

I’ve learned at least that much. It’s not too late to try to do the right thing.

Get up early. Stay up late. Do what needs to be done. It’s taken a couple years.

Miles, Sophia, Vikki and I got in the car Monday evening and drove to Forsyth Tech for the drive-through graduation.

It was neat and rainy and everybody was shrouded in masks. The people were nice. We didn’t get out of the car.

It was bittersweet. I’m not done, but it’s a start.

Jeffrey Griffin. Associate in Arts. With Honors.

Funny, I don’t feel particularly honorable. I feel late. 30 years late.

My Heroine

Peculiar days. None of us have navigated waters quite like these.

We’re surrounded by heroes.

Nurses. Doctors. EMT’s. Firefighters. Law enforcement. A festival of first responders.

Some are well-paid. Others, not so much. Long hours. Dangerous tasks. Insufficient gratitude.

When patients recover and the flames extinguished and the bad guys handcuffed, little is said.

But, these people… they go home, get a tiny bit of rest, get dressed and do it again. Day after day.

Heroes, each and every one.

Teachers. Folks doing the damn-near impossible day after day amid the criticism and demands of a great many, who genuinely have no idea about that of which they speak.

Soldiers. I dislike clichés, but sometimes, it’s the most appropriate thought. Two people have been willing to die for you and me. Jesus Christ and the American soldier. Think on that.

Heroes.

In the midst of all this unfamiliarity… other, non-traditional, everyday heroes have become vital to our way of life.

Pharmacists. Truckers. Stockers.

So happens, I’m married to a heroine.

Vikki Griffin works multiple jobs. She reports to a local grocery store for her “second” job.

The senior management likes Vikki. (These are my words, not hers.) Why not? She isn’t a kid. She’s a grownup. She’s responsible. She has common sense. She makes good decisions.

Mrs. Griffin has been promoted. They trust her. She can open the store. She can close the store. She deals with ornery customers. She does whatever needs to be done.

Since the “shelter in place” order, Vikki has logged lots more hours at the store.

She is patient and kind with the senior citizens. She rolls into Mother-Ville with the college kids. She never complains. Her work stories are never built on ridicule and exasperation. She speaks with compassion.

In these uncertain times, Vikki Griffin is helping feed the community.

“When I was hungry, you gave me something to eat, and when I was thirsty, you gave me something to drink. When I was a stranger, you welcomed me.” – Matthew 25:35

Vikki, I am proud of you. You are a wonderful example not only for our children, but for the world.

Things are not easy. I’m grateful we’re in this together. We’ll make it. We’ll survive. We always do.

Our Gang

I was not an outside kid. I did not spend a lot of time traipsing through the woods. That doesn’t mean I was vitamin D deficient. I ventured into the sunlight.

I loved football and the occasional trip to the playground. Nannie and I played two-person baseball in her backyard. I won countless championships with nine ghost players beneath the basketball goal in the parking lot at Maple Springs UMC. Mama and I were always welcome at Uncle Larry’s pool.

I did not live in front of the television. Pac Man was not the dictator of my free time.

Don’t feel badly. My childhood wasn’t lacking.

For the most part, I was on stage. Practice. Rehearsal. Repeat. I’m not sorry. I learned a LOT.

I prefer the inside. Folks unfamiliar with theatre, music and dance may not understand.

We weren’t huddled in a corner with a Ouija board. We weren’t lighting candles and smoking cigarettes.

It was a good thing.

I said all that to say this…

I’m not a huge fan of the outdoors. It’s hot. (Unless it’s cloudy and snowing, it’s hot.) Bugs and critters. Hiking. I don’t want to eat outside. Picnics are not romantic. I know nothing about camping, except the possibility of getting eaten by a bear is exponentially higher than it is if you stay inside.

Here and now. The virus. Shelter in place. I can deal with this. It’s not so easy for Sophia and Miles.

Our children are outside people.

Bicycles. Basketball. Soccer. Runs. Hikes. Exploring the woods. All that stuff.

I do not want our children to do-over my childhood experience. They cannot live my life, nor Vikki’s life, again.

Sophia has to live her life. Find her own passion. Discover her gifts. Make friends. Create memories.

Miles has to live his life. Find his own passion. Discover his gifts. Make friends. Create memories.

Well… our bouncing baby boy and girl are forging friendships in the neighborhood. Good for them. We’re delighted.

In the midst of these unprecedented times, good things are happening.

Families are cooking and eating together. We’re learning how to play board games we didn’t have the time to play before. People are using athletic equipment that’s been sitting in the garage far too long.

Sophia and Miles are out of the house for hours.

Last night, during our nightly walk around the neighborhood, I watched “the gang.”

There are seven. It’s kinda like the United Nations. Diversity at its finest.

Four boys. Three girls. Two Hispanic, two African-American and three Caucasian kids. Four houses.

Bicycles. Scooters. Easy-Rollers. Hoverboards. Roller blades. Roller skates. A unicycle.

Age-wise, they’re all within a few years of each other. They look after one another. They exchanged Easter cookies and cupcakes.

They are moments of “The Boys vs. The Girls,” but there is no finger pointing. There is no “We vs. Them.”

A trampoline in one yard. A primitive club house in another. A soccer goal and a basketball goal. Sidewalk chalk. They share walkie-talkies.

We don’t remind them to stay apart. They monitor themselves. They play in cycles. When two retreat for lunch, the others shift to a different location and the adventures continue.

Everything is outside. No video games. Imagination and freedom and respect and responsibility.

It’s the kind of behavior for which all parents hope and pray.

I wish the adults in the world would follow their example.

It’s not hard.

Our kids are in a gang. Our gang. And we couldn’t be prouder.

The Power Of Inclusion (The 5th of 5)

Some people won’t like this. Oh, well. See your therapist.

I have enormous respect for the basketball program in Chapel Hill. Carolina. Excellence is not easy. It requires hard work and a bit of good fortune. In necessitates the right people in the right place at the right time doing the right thing. That seldom happens.

Frank McGuire. Dean Smith. Bill Guthridge. Roy Williams.

Longevity at the highest level is rare. The pedigree of the Tar Heel hardwood is unparalleled.

Beyond the wins and the championships… Carolina basketball is all about family. The boys in baby blue look after each other. I admire the loyalty. It’s painfully obvious to the rest of us, who peek in from the outside.

Inclusion. Part five of five. This is it. The final story. I’ve written about church and church again. The ACC Tournament. One lost soul. And now…

Family.

Growing up, I didn’t have a big family. I’m not bitter. I feel sorry for those people obligated to attend a family reunion of 50. Or more. Yuck. I cannot imagine. No thanks. I’ll pass.

Beyond Vikki and Sophia and Miles and a few chosen others… my family is as it has almost always been.

Gretchen. Uncle Larry. Terry. John. Summer Enrichment. Summer school. There are others, too, of course. But, these are the big four. Four of the biggest. The brightest. The best.

Every summer of my life. People talk about it, but it’s impossible to fully understand without having lived it. These supremely gifted individuals defined my existence. They refined my perspective. As much as, and likely more so than, any array of hearts and minds found in any universe, these souls are collectively responsible for who I am.

My mother always said Gretchen’s loyalty was unmatched. “We could call Gretchen in the middle of the night and ask her to bring Krispy Kreme doughnuts to church, and she would.” Gretch joined the Summer Enrichment family when she was barely a grownup. She was immediately “good.” She grew into brilliance. And smart… The good Lord knows, Gretchen knows more about everything than almost everybody. She is the person I trust most in the world. She has never ever been less than honest with me.

Uncle Larry. My mama and Larry found each other at North Forsyth and remained together until, well, forever. I love my Uncle Larry. I LOVE my Uncle Larry. He’s not really my uncle, but that was never the point. The superintendent’s office called North one day for clarification, because (unbeknownst to the rest of the world) there was a running argument as to whether Maggie and Larry were really brother and sister. Larry was the best man at my wedding. Any artistic flair or vision or whatever it might be that dwells within my soul is primarily a result of the hours I spent standing beside him, trying to see what he saw.

Terry. He was not one of the “originals” at Summer Enrichment, but he was the missing piece that, once present, elevated everything from outrageously fantastic to freakin’ ridiculous. He is, without question, the finest musician I know. His music is not his own. I wish I could explain it. No mortal is that good. God chose Terry. The artistry flows from his heart. I wish I could be as good at anything as Terry is at everything. His passion for doing the best we can do is unbelievable. When my school children ask, “Why do you think we can do this?” Terry is the answer.

And John. He didn’t do Summer School “forever.” He slayed other dragons and conquered other realms. John has always been a part of my life. We played football. We clogged. We acted goofy in choir practice. We talked about girls and eventually women. He may, or may not, have provided me with an adult beverage before I was of age. John was the source of much of the fun in my life.

This was my family. They cheered me. Challenged me. Provoked me. Disciplined me. Trusted me. Taught me. Loved me.

More than anything, they loved me. They gave me every chance to be good. Sometimes, we were great.

It wasn’t only me. Along with my mama, they gave thousands of kids the chance to be good. They created a family that did the impossible year after year after year. All of us belonged.

Margaret liked some kids more than others. Gretchen would deal with some. Terry claimed the rest. For the most part, the summer school kids (the smart ones, anyway) didn’t mess with Uncle Larry. John loved everybody, except that one guy with all the bandanas…

We were included. Everybody. The shows were invariably good. Occasionally, there was unrivaled excellence.

The orphans from ANNIE. The last number in 42^ND STREET. Kids flying amid indoor fireworks with BARNUM. THE SOUND OF MUSIC cast was spectacular from top to bottom.

The moments were unending. Some people (a LOT, actually) were unforgettable. Michael. Candace. Tony. Mary.

My brothers and sisters. My family.

The power of inclusion. Ordinary people doing extraordinary things. Longevity. Pedigree.

The right people in the right place at the right time doing the right thing.

Summer School was, and these people are, the source of much of the good in my life. I miss it, terribly.

I yearn to find my own Gretchen and Uncle Larry and Terry and John. I hope to discover another collection of artistry and brilliance for another generation.

“A rope made from three strands of cord is not easily broken.” – Ecclesiastes 4:12

I wish, for the world, that you each may know the joy that comes from being intentionally included. It is powerful. Jesus knew it. I know it. I hope you find it.

You are loved. Amen.

The Power Of Inclusion (The 2nd of 5)

Vikki and I left the church of my youth. Don’t think it was easy. It wasn’t.

For people who have worked on a musical or played a season in any sport… remember the morning after it ended. The first day there was no rehearsal after spending three months of every waking moment singing and dancing. The first realization there are no more practices after preparing and competing together. It’s over.

Now – multiply that indefinable moment of recognition 30 times. If you haven’t lived it, comprehension is an impossibility.

Parents console. Friends commiserate. Directors stop and breathe. Coaches look to the next season.

The rest of us are left to balance fond memories with the ache of solitary confinement. Self-inflicted or not, it’s hard.

So, we left. I had no desire to go anywhere. I was done. My wife felt differently. We visited. Here. There. Everywhere. Over the course of twelve months, we visited nearly 100 churches. Sunday morning. (Twice.) Sunday evening. Wednesday night. The occasional Saturday. Offerings during Monday lunch and Thursday afternoon. Every denomination. Big. Small. In-between. Traditional. Contemporary. Blended.

Mrs. Griffin liked a few. I liked none. We finally found a place I thought I could tolerate. We returned for the Sunday night service. A well-intended usher stopped me at the door. “You’re welcome to stay, but, so long as you know, tonight’s service is for people 35 and younger.”

I smiled. “Got it. Thank you.” I took Vikki’s hand and we proceeded to walk in.

The usher followed us. “I mean, you might be uncomfortable. It’s a service for young people.”

I could feel Vikki’s grip tighten as I spoke, “Just so you know… God doesn’t have an age requirement. Nor a dress code. He likes everybody.” I thought my illustration was clear. Apparently, it was not.

“Well, like I said, you’re welcome to stay, but it really is for people younger than you.”

Well. Damn. I looked at my wife and apologized. We headed for the door. Another, more seasoned church member chased us down in the parking lot.

The second effort was commendable, but the damage had been done. “We gone.”

I was officially done with church. I’d had it.

A dear friend suggested we bring Sophia to the Harvest Celebration at Center Grove Baptist Church in Clemmons. Lewisville. Somewhere in between. Out there.

It was cool. Lots of people. Tons of candy. Food and drinks. They invited us to return on Sunday. We went.

I loved the choir. David Newman, one my mother’s all-time favorites, sang a solo. The preacher could preach. We kept going.

Lifegroups are big at Center Grove. For the uninformed, lifegroups are the latest reincarnation of Sunday School classes. I’m not a Sunday School person. I enjoyed Ruby Cocklin’s 5^th/6^th grade class at Maple Springs, but everything that followed was, well, less than scintillating.

We found a lifegroup. We made friends. Dinners on Wednesday nights. We decorated our car for Trunk-Or-Treat at the next Harvest Celebration. We wore ugly sweaters at the lifegroup Christmas party.

I’ve always felt enormous pity for folks that spend their life going from church-to-church, always finding a reason to complain and never fully investing in the life of the church.

Church is not a noun. Church is a verb. Vikki. Sophia. Miles. Jeffrey. All in. Our church home.

As unlikely as it sounds, Center Grove did not have a music ministry for children. I was astonished. I was pretty vocal about my belief that children should absolutely, positively, without a doubt, be involved in a church choir as early and as often as possible.

They scheduled a meeting. I went to the music store and got several demo packs of children’s Christmas programs. “We could do this or that or… I really like this one! Or we could write our own.”

The church leadership decided we should do a children’s Christmas program. I was delighted. I offered to help. I mean, really, I’m not a stranger to Christmas programs. Especially children’s programs.

I got the first notice… “Jeffrey, we appreciate your willingness to serve, but you cannot help in the children’s ministry until you are baptized. In Jesus’ name…”

“I’ve been baptized.”

“Sprinkled or immersion?”

“I was sprinkled.”

“The church doesn’t recognize the baptism unless you go under.”

“So, I have to get dunked to teach songs to children?”

“There is more to it than that, but, yes.”

I met with multiple church leaders to share my testimony and convince them of my heart for service. I went to class. Four classes, actually. The day arrived and, with Sophia and Miles watching, the preacher put me under in a hot tub on the front lawn at Center Grove Baptist.

Praise the Lord. It was fine. I don’t think it hurts to be baptized twice but I was, and remain, convicted on the premise that once is enough.

The second notice arrived…

“Jeffrey, congratulations on your baptism! We are happy for you and we’ll be praying for you. Again, we appreciate your willingness to serve in the children’s ministry, but we have a church member that is familiar with how-to-do a children’s program and we think it would be best if you watched this time around, so you can learn how to do a program. In Jesus’ name…”

I wasn’t thrilled. Leave it at that.

Vikki got dunked as a kid, so she was immediately eligible to work on Wednesday nights. They put her right to work. Sound and lights.

The first Wednesday night. The person who was supposed to “lead” didn’t show up. I was sitting in the corner. About 200 kids looking around, on the verge of going bat-crazy. My wife started walking in my direction with “that” look.

“Jeffrey, get up and teach those children.”

“Nope.”

“Jeffrey! Stand up and teach those children. Sophia and Miles are out there. You wanted this. I don’t know how to do it. Don’t be difficult.”

“No. They told me I’m supposed to watch so I can ‘learn how to do a program.’ It’s not my problem. Call somebody else.”

Vikki Griffin isn’t often angry. With anybody. Especially me.

I hollered after her as she stomped back to her sound board, “And I don’t have the music.”

A music book promptly sailed past my head.

60 minutes later, we had learned four measures. I was hot. The children were roaring. My wife was speaking and we were on our way to a Christmas program that saw about 250 kids leading in worship.

I wanted to continue. I made the plea. “Children’s choir every Wednesday night. We have the momentum. We should do it now. Don’t wait. The kids are excited.”

For the record, I firmly believe when a kid grows up singing JESUS LOVES ME and DO LORD and WHO BUILT THE ARK, that is the bedrock of faith that will sustain them when they are faced with the opportunities to buy a nickel bag or bully the new kid or face-down depression in the darkened corner of a dorm room.

This – THIS – is what the church should be teaching our children. Jesus loves you. Yes. Yes. Yes.

A third notice…

“Jeffrey, thank you for your assistance helping lead our children in worship during the Christmas season. We have decided to continue our Wednesday nights for kids with an emphasis on service and missions. There will not be any additional music rehearsals. In Jesus’ name…”

Alright. It was nice while it lasted. One and done. It wasn’t right, but I was not going to be “that guy,” always finding something about which to complain.

Our lifegroup was good. Good people. Great people, but a change was blowin’ in the wind. The leader of our lifegroup succumbed to brain cancer. We sat together at the funeral. A sad day. We prayed. We sang. We prayed some more.

Eventually, I started helping lead the lifegroup. Prayer time. Teaching. The group kept growing. New folks joined. I was concerned we were losing some of the “old folks.” (As in… some of the lifegroup members that had been around for a while and were uncharacteristically absent far too often.)

Monday morning, one of the church leaders called my cell phone. The conversation would inevitably be good or bad. Might as well find out now.

“Jeffrey, it has come to our attention that you used an inappropriate word while teaching the lifegroup yesterday.”

“I’m sorry about that, but I guess it’s possible. I might have said something I should not have said. What did I say?”

“You used the word, ‘boobs.’”

I had to stifle my laughter. “Boobs? When did I say ‘boobs?’ That’s right, I did. I absolutely said ‘boobs.’ I don’t understand the fuss. Everybody’s got ‘em. We’ve all seen ‘em. God made ‘em.”

In hindsight, I should have said less in that conversation.

I vividly recall the moment. The lifegroup was talking about gender and church leadership. I made the statement: “If Sophia Griffin came home and said, ‘Daddy, I want to be a preacher,’ it would be a terrible thing to look at her and say, ‘I’m sorry, baby, you can’t be a preacher because you have boobs.’”

Somebody was offended. Oh well. Somebody is always offended. I’m offended that they’re offended. How offensive.

It was the last time I was asked to teach the lifegroup. I didn’t receive official notification, but it felt like a formal suspension.

A few weeks later, a member of the lifegroup criticized the Pope. I was offended. I spoke up in defense of the leader of the Catholic church. To be a protestant, I’m a very good Catholic. We spend every Christmas Eve with the Pope during the NBC broadcast of midnight mass from the Vatican.

People let details get in the way of worship. We’re on the same team.

Needless to say, that didn’t go over well. Another reprimand.

The dynamic of the lifegroup was changing. It was less and less about sharing life. From where I sat, it was becoming a group that acted in accordance with whatever social activities were calendared by those in charge.

I was not allowed to bring Sophia and Miles to a children’s outing for lifegroup families because “it really is a time for the kids to play while the mothers get together. You would be uncomfortable.”

The men in the group seemed destined to spend time together only if it had something to do with shooting or racing or camping. I don’t shoot things. I know even less about racing. And camping? Hahahahahahahaha.

Vikki flies most weekends. She repeatedly asked if we could get together and do something on a weeknight. One of the newest-self-proclaimed lifegroup leaders responded, “Vikki, this is convenient for most of us. If your schedule changes, let us know.”

My wife cried. I was angry. The last straw. (Almost.)

The same lifegroup member that incorrectly diagnosed my comfort level during the children’s outing and subsequently told my wife to “let us know” approached us Sunday morning.

“Vikki, Jeffrey, we’re planning a bowling party for the group and we were thinking that y’all could introduce us like Pat Sajak and Vanna White on WHEEL OF FORTUNE! Wouldn’t that be fun?”

Vikki looked stricken. I said, “No. We don’t work for free and you probably can’t afford us.”

“Oh. We thought it would be neat to be introduced…”

In the weeks that followed, we said little, if anything, during lifegroup. It had become painfully obvious we didn’t belong. We didn’t fit in. Sophia and Miles sensed something was not quite right, but they didn’t know what questions to ask.

One of the best, if not the best, developments of our adventure at Center Grove is my friendship with Emmett. My best friend. I love Emmett. He is irreverently outspoken. Ridiculously smart. Wildly funny. He is passionate about two things: Jesus and family. The man will do whatever needs to be done. He is one of the heroes of my life.

Emmett and I talked about the lifegroup. A lot. The next best step was obvious. We met with the church leadership. We asked for permission to create a new lifegroup. We said nothing negative about the current group. Not a word. There was no reason to whine or complain.

“The church is growing. We think another lifegroup would be helpful. It is becoming increasingly difficult to stay connected with individuals due to the sheer size of the class roster.”

One of Emmett’s jobs is teaching. The man has a master’s degree. He’s an ordained minister.

Then, of course, you have me. I am what I am. Husband. Father. Teacher. Musician. Worship leader. User of inappropriate words.

A saint and a sinner.

Together, we’re actually pretty good.

We submitted the required paperwork. The church leadership said our request would be reviewed and they would “be in touch.”

Emmett and I felt good. We were excited. We went to dinner and argued over hush puppies.

A few days later… An email arrived.

“Emmett, Jeffrey, thank you for your willingness to serve in a lifegroup but, after prayerful consideration, the church cannot grant your request to establish and lead a new lifegroup. In Jesus’ name…”

I quit reading. Emmett reached out, “Why?”

“Well, Emmett, we feel it would be inappropriate for two men to lead a lifegroup if their wives cannot be present.”

“So… Jeffrey’s wife is a flight attendant and works weekends. My wife teaches in the children’s ministry. And because they are working and volunteering, we can’t lead a lifegroup?”

“Correct.”

We talked. Emmett and I chose to remain quiet. We don’t believe in arguing in church.

“They became so angry that they got up and threw him out of town. They dragged him to the edge of the cliff on which the town was built, because they wanted to throw him down from there. But Jesus slipped through the crowd and got away.” – Luke 4:29-30

There is nothing quite like being out of the club. I never went back. Vikki, Sophia and Miles finished the school year. We slipped away, unnoticed.

Out is one thing, but we weren’t even missed. Guess I’ll stay at home and watch Pat and Vanna. That’ll be fun…

The Power Of Inclusion (The 1st of 5)

Being left out hurts. Perhaps because I have spent so much of my life on the inside of the velvet ropes, I handle the notion of exclusion poorly. Which is to say, I don’t handle it at all.

Cry in the bathroom. Temper tantrum in the car. Move on.

Richard Griffin was my father. I rarely speak of the man. Richard departed when I was four years-old. He chose to leave the family. Abandoned. I’m still wary of the sting of not being wanted. The therapists and psy-everybodies are lining up for consultations.

Cry in the bathroom. Temper tantrum in the car. Move on.

That said, I freely admit to harboring an unquenchable thirst for acceptance. I like being a part of “the group.” I’m accustomed to having a seat at the table and a larger-than-life presence in the inner circle.

Clearly – a different circumstance from my own, but I agonize on Good Friday when Peter denies the Man three times. Me and you, Jesus, me and you. The pain that bubbles up when a friend turns away is… well. It is what it is.

Rejection is not washed away like dirt in the shower. It is not scratched off like an old scab. It is not discarded like table scraps or junk mail.

It is a piercing for which there is no bandage. Neosporin won’t help.

My mother spent her life in church music. Carl Hemphill, the preacher at Carolina Memorial Baptist Church in Thomasville, announced the church organist was leaving to get married and “We need somebody to play next week. Who has had the most piano lessons?” Despite her opposition and thanks to my grandmother’s insistence, my mother was chosen.

Thus, Margaret’s nearly 70 year-adventure in church leadership began. Eventually, she resigned from an unnamed and now-defunct church after a less-than-pleasant conversation with the minister who told her, “Maggie, you’re going straight to Hell if you don’t stop smoking cigarettes.”

We went home. My mother said, “I’m not doing anymore church music unless God sends a dove to my front door with a note tied to its leg.”

Later that week, there was a knock on our door at Countryside Apartments about nine o’clock one night. Bobby Faulkner was standing there.

“Maggie, can I come in?”

The Faulkner children were North Forsyth kids and Bobby’s carpet store, Old Town Carpet, had been the sponsor of my little league baseball team.

“Of course.”

“Maggie, I’m sorry to bother you but Betty and I go to Maple Springs and we’re looking for a new choir director. I was getting ready for bed and it felt like God kept telling me to come ask if you might be interested…”

“Pull up your pant leg. Is there a note tied to your ankle?”

We went to Maple Springs the next Sunday and the committee offered Margaret the job right after the service.

That was 1979.

I grew up at the Pumpkin Church. It was home. My grandmother moved in with us in 1982. The three of us were almost always one of three places: school, church or home. More often than not, it was school or church.

Maggie, Jeffrey and Mrs. Poole.

Almost immediately, my mother told me I was singing in the Chancel Choir. (The adult choir.) I sat beside Bobby Faulkner.

I’ve done a lot of music with a lot of people in a lot of places. No one has been more influential in my musical upbringing than Bobby Faulkner. The enormity of my respect and affection for the man is indescribable. He is a magnificent human being.

The church grew. The church grew a lot. At some point, for some report, we had to count numbers and compile lists. (Methodists love committee meetings and reports.)

We attempted to document everything. There were 17 “groups” in the Music Department involving just over 300 people. We counted everything again. That couldn’t be right.

Bells. Tone chimes. Choirs. Instrumentalists. A praise team. Children. Youth. Adults. Senior citizens.

Vikki and I were married. Margaret had retired from school. As a family, the three of us were at church 60-80 hours per week.

Margaret was not well. Her mobility was severely limited. She continued to direct the Chancel Choir, the Senior Choir, Golden Bells, Children’s Bells, the Praise Team, the Youth Choir and Youth Bells in addition to special services and programs.

Vikki, and a then-infant Sophia, helped run the sound board during the traditional service, built sets and made costumes. She kept life going by filing music, organizing folders, setting up microphones, plugging in cables, maintaining the calendar and carrying bell cases wherever they needed to go.

I tagged along. Worship leader for the early service. Arranging parts for the instrumentalists. Chancel Choir. Children’s choir. And… well, I went wherever I needed to be. I sang SWEET LITTLE JESUS BOY every Christmas Eve. It was my favorite moment of the year.

As Margaret became weaker and weaker, I directed more and more. We were constantly recruiting new members.

Maple Springs was our home. I think my wife was surprised by how many hours we spent in the church, but she never complained.

Church is reflective of the world. The more we moved forward, the more some folks voiced their opposition.

“That song is too slow! That song is too fast! We need more video! We’re not having a screen in the sanctuary! I want a wireless mic! Microphones are of the devil!”

The clamour was incessant. I was more than a little perplexed. Aren’t we all on God’s side? All the way with Yahweh. God is good… all the time and all the time…

2009. Margaret became very ill. She was hospitalized and was heavily sedated. They called Vikki at home. “We’re taking her in for emergency surgery. We don’t think she’ll make it. Get her as quickly as you can if you want to see her again.”

Vikki called me. We met at the hospital and crashed through the heavily guarded doors protecting the hallway leading to the operating rooms. They were rolling my mother into the O.R.

“Wait!” Vikki ran down the hall carrying our baby. “Sophia wants to say goodbye.”

My mother kissed my daughter and my wife earned “Bad Ass” status for life.

Life note: people in green scrubs are not especially fond of hallway interruptions. Just saying.

To little surprise, Margaret survived. They gave her LOTS of happy juice and she was as high as a kite for several days. Several.

Nobody knew at the time, but the family had already decided Margaret was going to retire at the end of the year. She would do Christmas and be done. We were in agreement. We had not informed the church because we did not want the last six months to be a gigantic going away party. Church is church. It was not going to be the “Farewell Maggie Tour.”

The preacher from Maple Springs visited Margaret in the hospital. Vikki and I were not there. In a moment of lucidity, she told him she was planning to retire at the end of the year.

It was a confidential utterance.

The preacher returned to the church and made the announcement from the pulpit. “Maggie is not returning.”

We were stunned. In hindsight, we should have seen it coming. He was not a fan of my mother. There was an uneasiness whenever the two of them were in the same place. I think he wanted our family gone.

He refused to learn Vikki’s name. We laughed about it until it became uncomfortable. He never ever addressed my wife by name. I found it disrespectful. Vikki, the more easy-going half of our union, swept it under the collective rug and continued doing whatever needed to be done.

We read about the service and reception to honor Margaret’s 30 years of service in the church newsletter. We were never told.

I called the church and informed the preacher that Margaret could not attend because she was in a rehab facility for physical therapy and Vikki would be flying out-of-state. “We need to find another date.”

His response? “Sorry you can’t be here but that’s when we’re doing it.”

No member of the Griffin family attended.

The “Director Of Music” job opening was posted in all the regular places. I submitted my resume and a cover letter.

Hire me. Don’t hire me. The church absolutely has the right, and the responsibility, to make the best decision possible for the church. Not a problem. I agree.

I thought, however, I had earned the opportunity to be in the conversation. 30 years and a family commitment merited at least the consideration.

The preacher assembled a committee. (How Methodist. Bless our hearts.) One of the committee members was sent to deliver the message in person.

“Jeffrey, we received your resume and your letter but, the truth is, you’re simply not qualified. We hope you will find a place in the church where your talents can be better utilized.”

Through the grapevine, I learned that the preacher was saying some pretty ugly things about me and my family around town. I was angry. I was more than angry.

I contacted the Administrative Board of the church and asked them to put a stop to the inappropriate conversations. Nothing happened.

I sent the preacher a “Jeffrey version” of a cease and desist letter. Nothing happened.

Eventually, I contacted the Bishop’s office of the North Carolina Conference of the United Methodist Church. “The comments about my family better stop. If it continues, we’re prepared to retain an attorney.” I’m guessing there was a phone call and the preacher found his OFF button.

Vikki, Sophia and I did not return to Maple Springs. Bitterness morphed into anger which led to deep resentment. I nearly drowned in a wave of rejection and depression that was almost impossible to overcome.

I declared I would not return to any church. Vikki prayed and prayed and prayed for my well-being.

Countless football games played among the pumpkins each October. Learning to drive in the vast parking lot. Placing flowers on the cross on Easter Sunday. The memories haunted me.

Every time I drove past the Pumpkin Church, I was consumed with a hatred that was unnatural and unhealthy.

Cry in the bathroom. Temper tantrum in the car. I could not move on.

In the Methodist church, preachers come and go. Love ‘em or hate ‘em: hang on for a while and a new one will appear.

Time passed. The preacher left. Jeff Coppley arrived. I knew Jeff long before he was the senior pastor at Maple Springs. I like Jeff. I love Jeff. He is a righteous man.

Margaret died. (That sounds ugly when I read it out loud.) Eventually, it will happen to each of us.

Jeff and I met in his office to talk about the memorial service for my mama. That was a conversation. I finally said everything I’d wanted to say about every thought and every feeling and every everything since we left the church in 2009.

Thunder and lightning. Earthquake and avalanche. It was not a moment Jeff could fix and I was in no mood to pray. He let me be. Being in the church building made me sick.

What I wanted, was to be included. What I wanted, was to be needed. What I wanted, was to be a part of the whole.

More than anything, I wanted somebody to stand up and claim me.

“The Lord turned and looked at Peter. And Peter remembered that the Lord had said, ‘Before a rooster crows tomorrow morning, you will say three times that you don’t know me.’ Then Peter went out and cried bitterly.” – Luke 22:61-62

I don’t sing in church these days. I sit in the congregation with my wife and our children. I’m fine with God. We’re good. Church, on the other hand…

We celebrated Margaret’s life. The sanctuary was full. The organ roared. The piano sparkled. The drums pulsed. The bells chimed. We danced. Terry Hicks and I picked three of the biggest, loudest, most outrageous anthems we could find for a choir that was bigger-than-life. Some of the people I love most lead the readings. Preachers preached. Saints prayed. Sinners laughed. It was the most glorious hymn-singing to ever happen this side of Heaven.

And, for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t angry with the church. I finally understood it is not the place our family is supposed to be. I called Jeff. I explained and he understood. I knew he would.

Maple Springs is home to some spectacularly wonderful people. Folks I cherish. Folks for whom I would do anything. Folks I love. I’ve never thought the church is “bad.”

The church should have done better. The church must do better.

For whatever reason, a handful of well-meaning Christians thought it wise to exclude me and mine. My Nannie would have said we were “run off.” I say we were pushed out. That hurt. It still hurts. Some nights, I weep.

Bitterly.