The blog of Greg DeLoach
Roswell Georgia
Life Together
When I was a teenager and in the middle of self-absorbed angst I counted the days until I could move out of the house and live on my own. Within weeks of my high school graduation I fulfilled part of that plan by moving to Atlanta to begin a fresh journey as an art student. I quickly discovered there really is no such thing as living on my own. Money was always tight, so I needed others to employ me; I knew no one in Atlanta and so I needed to make new friends; and my family, doggone it, was not so bad after all. I found myself coming home most weekends and waiting until the last minute to head back to my lonely studio apartment in Atlanta. Each week my grandmother would fry a chicken and bake a loaf of bread for me to take back with me. It was for me a striking reminder of how our lives are bound together in this life together. Those are two very simple words that bespeak volumes – life together. Sometimes life together is a fragile collection of relationships, loosely held and easily broken. In other seasons life together is about tight bonds, loyally woven together in a tapestry of lifelong love. German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote a little book by the title Life Together while he taught an underground seminary during the dark days of Nazi Germany. In it he describes that the church should be a community of love where forgiveness, acceptance and charity to all is lived and practiced. Life together. That is what we are seeking...
I Want a Motorcycle…
The urge wells up within me whenever the days are warm and the skies are sunny. It simply is not much fun riding around in a car with the windows rolled up, the air-conditioner humming, and NPR broadcasting. To allay this desire for asphalt freedom I will play U2 or Bruce Springsteen on the radio, but the effect is only temporary. When I owned a MINI I enjoyed the luxury of a “panoramic sunroof” which was probably as close to a convertible as I will ever come to possess. I would slide the roof back and let the wind blow through my thinning hairline and feel some measure of freedom. That is, until I pulled into the church parking lot, straitened my tie, patted down my hair, and returned to respectability. Yep, I want a motorcycle. Or a convertible. Or at least a hula doll for my dashboard. But in the meantime I think I will just enjoy this life as it comes day by day regardless of what I am driving, riding, or surfing. If I can find a Jimmy Buffett tune to accompany me along part of that journey, all the better. One of my favorite texts of scriptures that quite often makes its way in my funeral homilies comes from Ecclesiastes 3:12-13 – “I know that there is nothing better for them than to rejoice and to do good in one’s lifetime; moreover, that every one who eats and drinks sees good in all their labor – it is the gift of God.” Listen to those verbs again: “rejoice…do good…eat…drink…sees good…” This is not just another...
Hugging Trees and Thanking God
God saw everything that he had made, and indeed, it was very good. (Genesis 1:31) Do you remember when you first discovered that the world, the earth is a beautiful place? Perhaps you were on a family vacation and you were gripped by exploding autumn colors in the Great Smoky Mountains. Or you hiked with your parents to a waterfall and for the first time were overwhelmed as the mist enfolded you and the water thundered down. When was it that you discovered the beauty of creation? Staring at Orion galloping across the evening sky or peering through the telescope to see the craters of the moon? Early in college I took an interest in ecology and the environment and found myself accused of being a tree-hugger. Well I must confess I am. I love trees. Many mornings you might see me walking around this campus admiring the stately live oaks, redbuds, and Japanese Maples that mark our church grounds. With great affection I remember the first tree I fell in love with when I was a boy. It was a giant sycamore that to this day still looms over a creek through the pasture bottoms where the dairy cows graze before the afternoon milking. When we were small children my daddy and grandparents would take us to that spot to play in the sand alongside that sycamore whose roots reached beneath the creek itself and the massive limbs shaded us from the scorching summer sun. This time of year trees around us are shaking off winter’s sleep and opening up delicate new leaves for the year. I have...
Another Golf Story…Sort of…
Preachers love stories – hearing them; telling them; sharing them; and even – if necessary and it is good for the kingdom’s sake – making them up! From this preacher, you will not likely hear me tell a golf story. I have never played the game and outside of knowing that the little white ball is supposed to go in the little hole conveniently marked by a flag, I know very little about it. I know that even if I were to try to tell a golf story I would invariably get the facts wrong, or mess up the punch line, or say something that would leave the better-informed among you thinking less of me. Amy was mildly embarrassed of me and a bit indignant during my first golf outing here in Augusta. Someone was very generous and thoughtful by providing an opportunity for us to attend The Masters – perhaps you have heard of it? Anyway, at hole 13 (at least I think that was the hole; I remember there were lots of beautiful azaleas and some water, yet for some reason no one was fishing) a golfer was preparing to “tee off” and I politely asked the question, in an appropriate hushed tone because everyone else was whispering, “is that where they whack the ball?” Amy told me to be quiet and eat my pimento cheese sandwich. Now when I attend I just keep my thoughts to myself and make small talk about all the lovely shrubs, flowers and trees. Even though I know very little about golf and have no intention to take up the game,...
Mr. Goodbar
Years ago when I was just a fledgling young adult I stumbled upon a stack of old candy bar wrappers that my grandmother had carefully saved through the years. A dozen or so “Mr. Goodbar” wrappers had been devotedly pressed like wildflowers on exhibit and preserved as a mute testimony to my grandfather’s attempt at romance. My grandfather, Papa, attended Rockville Academy, in rural Putnam County. The school is still standing with a historical marker designating it as the oldest consolidated rural school in Georgia and is listed on the National Register of Historic Places. His memories of his years attending that farm school live on in the stories he shared with us. He laughed about the recollection of a school holiday when as boys they led a cow (or was it a mule?) up the stairs of the schoolhouse and locked her in for the duration of the break. Then there was the time when, along with some accomplices, he took a mason jar, placed it over the hole of a nest of yellow-jackets and filled it to the brim. Later in the afternoon someone rolled the jar down the aisle of the classroom releasing the now very angry yellow-jackets and affectively releasing class for the day. Corporal punishment was in use and was no doubt used frequently. For reasons I am not clear, by the time Papa was a teenager he began attending Eatonton Academy – the school in town which was also the same school house attended by my daddy, and later my sister, brothers and me. It was there he moved from pranks with cows...
A Little Walt Whitman is Good for the Soul
I dream’d in a dream I saw a city invincible, to the attacks of the whole of the rest of the earth, I dream’d that was the new city of Friends. I keep a copy of Whitman’s Leaves of Grass on the end table by my reading chair. I read snatches of his lines in the early morning before digging into whatever book I am working through at the time. There is just something about those 19th century American Romantics that have me returning to their waters time and again to drink. You have heard me cite the following quote by Henry David Thoreau – another American Romantic – before, but it is worth repeating: I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately; to front only the essentials in life and see what it had to teach me. And not, when I came to die, discover that I had never lived. Those few words make me want to grab my walking stick parked in a corner in our house and head out to the wooded hills with my wife in hand to see what there is to see. The words of Whitman and Thoreau have lasted so long because they speak to the heart of the human condition – the desire to live faithfully and deliberately. It is also a reminder of the importance of abiding together. It is part of the church’s responsibility to bear upon our consciences that God created us to live not in isolation but in community, and to do so with a holy intentionality. So many – too many – trudge...
Stump Removal
It took four weeks of intermittent, hard labor but I have taken care of a stump in our front yard…mostly. It all started with the ice storm – ICE2K14, or icepocalypse, or whatever you want to call that event one month ago. We had several trees come down during the storm including one right in front of the house. It was one of those tall yellow pines that bless our community with its electric-yellow dusty pollen every year. Unlike all of the other trees that fell on and around our place, this one fell right at the roots, creating a modest size root ball of Georgia red clay and knotted, spidery roots still clenching to the earth from which it came. As of last night I finally dug, clawed and hacked my way down the hole to sever the remaining roots including the infamous tap root. When I emerged from the hole gripping the tap root I looked as though I had just caught an 80 pound channel cat. This stump is only about 24 inches in diameter but the hole I dug to get to it is about 20 feet deep. Well, maybe not twenty feet, but it was deep. Combined with the depth of the hole and the weight of the now severed stump I am looking for back up (two young men who happen to share my last name as well as part of my DNA) to help me lift the tangled mass of pine and mud out. I plan to keep my day job if you good folks will permit. Preaching is much easier. Of...
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