Just talking...

My favorite musician is a guy named Bebo Norman.  I discovered him on one of my many lonely late night flights from Lord-knows-where, just trying to get home.

It was during those times, while plugged in to an MP3 player and squeezed between a cold window and a stranger that smelled like stale corn chips, I found a few minutes of peace.

The song "Never saw you coming" is the one I play over and over. 

The artist talks about being you, being me, the disillusioned artist, the faithless minister, the lonely one that slips away, the promise about to be broken, the lost leader, the beggar reaching out his hands...

And you came.

You breathed your breath in me and made me new - you are mine and I am yours.

I never saw you coming.

I never dreamed of running.

It is a great song.

In the darkest of times, when my heart was breaking and I had no answers, when the storm was at its worst, this song was such a help...it just felt right, I remembered who I was, why I was, and where I was going...

My mother is now in the hospital.  8 months ago, we buried my father. I don't think this is like that, hopefully, we caught it before it got worse, she is recuperating from dehydration and infection.

But she was groggy like he was, she was unable to walk like he was, and once again, we - her children, had to try to rescue what is left of this family.

I've been listening to Bebo's music once again.

I have learned the meaning of a scripture...

I hope my father is in heaven, I hope to see him one day.  I hope this so intensely, that my system of beliefs are based on this hope.  I live by this hope, and what I believe makes this hope real.  This system, this faith, becomes the substance of the things I hope for.

When I pray, I hope they are heard.

When I see answers, I know they were, and my hope increases, I keep believing.  When they are not, I am disappointed, but I keep hoping...

And I listen to Bebo again.

Those lonely nights on long flights seem to be a thing of the past now, but nights have become day and the prison of a plane is no longer "Con Air" but the endless conference calls and contracts that restrain us to this wooden instrument of torture called a desk.

I know I ramble at times, but I hope you understand...

If not, listen to Bebo next time the night is at its darkest and morning seems light years away. 

And hope for better times - they will be here...