other parents stand together in shock. They all begin to laugh, hug and congratulate each other on the band's big break.
Randy suddenly stops in mid-celebration. His baby fat hangs over his Levi's like a doughy muffin. "Hey, let's paaarrrty ! Can we order pizza? I'm staarving !"
I t’s Sunday morning—church day. Even if I have a late show the night before, I almost always find the will to rise and shine for the a.m. service at my hometown Baptist church. My first attendance there was exactly nine days after my birth. I was three weeks old at my dedication and received a blue and white checked baby quilt that Mama still has, and was baptized there at the age of ten. My church is a part of my life that always comforts my soul and helps keep my feet planted firmly on the rich, Choska Bottom soil.
A small stream of cheerful sunlight creeps through my mini blinds, gently warming my puffy eyelids. It had been a very exciting and a very late night. It takes me a minute to realize, as my eyes squint open, that the meeting with Dan had really happened; it wasn’t just a dream. My band, Cellar Door Is Gone, is going to be a legitimate, signed band! A big, smile grows over my face and doesn't want to go away.
I roll over when my Superman clock begins to shriek. It’s ten a.m —time to rise and try to shine. I slap the alarm and throw a pillow at my bud, Zane, who’s snoring in a tiger-striped sleeping bag on my floor. Zane had come knocking at my window at two o’clock in the morning. He spends quite a few nights at my house to avoid the constant, simmering tension in his home.
His mom re-married three years ago and unfortunately, he and his step-dad don’t see eye-to-eye on too many issues. Zane's mom tries her best to keep the peace in the family, but Zane is a strong-willed teenager and his step-dad considers him just another mouth to feed. The bigger problem is that his step-dad isn’t a fan of working a steady job. Zane refers to him as “Lazy Larry.” Larry spends a lot of leisurely time on the couch, playing Zane’s X-Box and drinking Budweiser, thanks to Zane’s mom, who supports all of them by working full time at Wal-Mart.
Zane finds it impossible to hold his tongue when he’s being harassed. When the arguments ensue, he usually just storms out and comes knocking at my door or window. He knows he’s always welcome, but it’s still tough for him. I can tell that he battles depression and sadness as a result of his dysfunctional home life. Like me, playing music is therapy for Zane—it’s an escape from his harsh reality at home. Zane and I jam together every chance we get.
“Hey, lazy," I groan, as the pillow I chuck bounces off Zane's head. "My mom's fixin ' a big breakfast and we're goin ’ to church…why don't you come with us, dude?" I ask, raising my eyebrows persuasively. "I've even got a surprise for ya , man," I continue, hoping that the meal and mystery might entice him into joining us.
"Oh, duuudde …shoot,” Zane moans as he stretches. "You're lucky your mom's breakfast smells so good, because that's the only reason I'm gettin ' up," he weakly responds. We both get a good laugh at each other’s wild, bed-head hair.
After a hearty country breakfast of eggs, biscuits, gravy, and savory sausage, thanks to Aunt Carmen’s pig, Elmer—may he rest in hog heaven—we head for church. It’s a beautiful Sunday morning. Our spirits are high. We’re greeted with smiles and g ood morning s as we step into the foyer of the quaint, red brick Baptist Church.
Following three songs from the hymnal, Brother Aaron steps up to the podium and proclaims , in a warm tone, that I’ll be performing special music today. I can sense an air of skepticism among the elders of the church as the announcement is made. I’ve never before played for the morning service. The congregation only knows me as a teen athlete—a player for the Tiger football team—the linebacker that needs a haircut. They
Randy suddenly stops in mid-celebration. His baby fat hangs over his Levi's like a doughy muffin. "Hey, let's paaarrrty ! Can we order pizza? I'm staarving !"
I t’s Sunday morning—church day. Even if I have a late show the night before, I almost always find the will to rise and shine for the a.m. service at my hometown Baptist church. My first attendance there was exactly nine days after my birth. I was three weeks old at my dedication and received a blue and white checked baby quilt that Mama still has, and was baptized there at the age of ten. My church is a part of my life that always comforts my soul and helps keep my feet planted firmly on the rich, Choska Bottom soil.
A small stream of cheerful sunlight creeps through my mini blinds, gently warming my puffy eyelids. It had been a very exciting and a very late night. It takes me a minute to realize, as my eyes squint open, that the meeting with Dan had really happened; it wasn’t just a dream. My band, Cellar Door Is Gone, is going to be a legitimate, signed band! A big, smile grows over my face and doesn't want to go away.
I roll over when my Superman clock begins to shriek. It’s ten a.m —time to rise and try to shine. I slap the alarm and throw a pillow at my bud, Zane, who’s snoring in a tiger-striped sleeping bag on my floor. Zane had come knocking at my window at two o’clock in the morning. He spends quite a few nights at my house to avoid the constant, simmering tension in his home.
His mom re-married three years ago and unfortunately, he and his step-dad don’t see eye-to-eye on too many issues. Zane's mom tries her best to keep the peace in the family, but Zane is a strong-willed teenager and his step-dad considers him just another mouth to feed. The bigger problem is that his step-dad isn’t a fan of working a steady job. Zane refers to him as “Lazy Larry.” Larry spends a lot of leisurely time on the couch, playing Zane’s X-Box and drinking Budweiser, thanks to Zane’s mom, who supports all of them by working full time at Wal-Mart.
Zane finds it impossible to hold his tongue when he’s being harassed. When the arguments ensue, he usually just storms out and comes knocking at my door or window. He knows he’s always welcome, but it’s still tough for him. I can tell that he battles depression and sadness as a result of his dysfunctional home life. Like me, playing music is therapy for Zane—it’s an escape from his harsh reality at home. Zane and I jam together every chance we get.
“Hey, lazy," I groan, as the pillow I chuck bounces off Zane's head. "My mom's fixin ' a big breakfast and we're goin ’ to church…why don't you come with us, dude?" I ask, raising my eyebrows persuasively. "I've even got a surprise for ya , man," I continue, hoping that the meal and mystery might entice him into joining us.
"Oh, duuudde …shoot,” Zane moans as he stretches. "You're lucky your mom's breakfast smells so good, because that's the only reason I'm gettin ' up," he weakly responds. We both get a good laugh at each other’s wild, bed-head hair.
After a hearty country breakfast of eggs, biscuits, gravy, and savory sausage, thanks to Aunt Carmen’s pig, Elmer—may he rest in hog heaven—we head for church. It’s a beautiful Sunday morning. Our spirits are high. We’re greeted with smiles and g ood morning s as we step into the foyer of the quaint, red brick Baptist Church.
Following three songs from the hymnal, Brother Aaron steps up to the podium and proclaims , in a warm tone, that I’ll be performing special music today. I can sense an air of skepticism among the elders of the church as the announcement is made. I’ve never before played for the morning service. The congregation only knows me as a teen athlete—a player for the Tiger football team—the linebacker that needs a haircut. They
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