Boulevard Bolt

Last week I had my first experience with the Boulevard Bolt. This Nashville Thanksgiving Day tradition got its start in 1994, when a core group of folks from Immanuel Baptist Church, St. George's Episcopal Church, and The Temple Congregation Ohabai Sholom decided to collaborate to sponsor a race to raise money for Nashville's homeless community. This 5-mile race initially attracted 2,500 participants; this year 8,025 men, women, and children registered for the race - the largest number in the event's history. Through the years the Boulevard Bolt has donated over $1.2 million in grants to community agencies that assist the homeless, including Safe Haven Family Shelter, an organization my family has supported for many years.

As I worked at the registration table in Immanuel's Fellowship Hall four days last week, I had the opportunity to interact with an extraordinary assembly of volunteers from these three Belle Meade congregations. As I gave participants their race numbers, I learned that the Bolt has become a tradition for many families - an event they look forward to throughout the year. I registered several extended families, including one with 15 members. The "I came the longest distance to run" award goes to a young woman named Rachel, a Nashville native who now serves as a missionary in Guatemala.

On Thanksgiving morning, Paul, Chaney, and I reported for duty at the chip distribution tent at 5:30 a.m. As we pulled away from Belle Meade Boulevard several hours later, I marveled at the army of volunteers who had given of their time sacrificially to make this event possible. Without a doubt, the Bolt was the best part of my Thanksgiving weekend.

I confess that now I'm hooked. What an extraordinary event! I am grateful to the individuals from Immanuel, St. George's, and The Temple who took the initiative and chose to work together years ago to establish a race to help the homeless. Next year I look forward to volunteering to work the Boulevard Bolt once again - and this time I plan on walking it, too.

the Tambi heritage tour

Last Thursday afternoon I headed west - not very far though, just a two-hour drive to my birthplace: Jackson, Tennessee. My ultimate destination on Friday morning was Memphis, where I had arranged to spend some time gleaning wisdom from my friend Carol, who has been serving as the associate pastor of First Baptist Memphis for nine years. I planned to stay overnight in Jackson, so that I could visit with my son's lovely girlfriend at Union University and spend time with relatives who still call Jackson home.

While in Jackson, I embarked upon a brief, memory-laden tour of the city of my birth. I drove past our former homes on Grandview, Highland, and Hollywood. I cruised by the three elementary schools I attended: Andrew Jackson, Highland Park, Alexander. (Why I attended three schools in five years is another story.) I sought out the site of my birth, Jackson-Madison County General Hospital, as well as the old campus of Union University, where I spent the first months of my infancy living in Ellis Hall, the men's dorm where Mom and Dad served as dorm parents. I passed by my maternal grandparents' home on Skyline Drive, where for one stretch of time in the late 60s my family of five - with #6 on the way - lived in obviously cramped quarters with my grandparents and uncle. I returned to the former downtown location of First Baptist Church: the site of my parents' wedding, the church I attended for the first eleven years of my life; the place where I made a public confession of my faith in Jesus Christ and was baptized in the winter of 1974.

I was struck by the odd collection of memories that came flooding back during my far-too-brief heritage tour: hanging upside down from the branch of a dogwood tree in my grandparents' front yard; my New Year's Day stroll to a market with my best friend Jean to spend the silver dollar my great-grandmother gave me for Christmas on a "book" of Lifesavers; the soft bonnet hair dryer I was using as a kindergartner on the day when the earthquake shook my bedroom; my sister's ballerina necklace that I hurled onto a window ledge; the grilled cheese sandwiches my mother used to buy me on our post-kindergarten lunch dates at Woolworth's; the pleasurable walks with my Dad from his office on Union's campus to the public library.

Soren Kierkegaard observed, "Life must be lived forward, but can only be understood backwards." I have been doing a lot of looking backwards in the past few months, and the understanding I have gleaned propels me forward. I am grateful to God for my past and eagerly anticipating the future.

delicious autumn

A few days before my mother died, while I was seeking to pass the time while waiting and watching at my parents' house, I grew antsy. I felt the need to do something, to accomplish a task, even if it was insignificant. And so I began to sort through a wooden filing box that my mother kept in the kitchen near the phone. In this box I found a variety of items - an assortment of photos of her grandchildren, expired coupons, take out menus, recipes, my son's 7th grade awards day program, and a card from the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library & Museum.

The thing that caught my eye as I sorted through this random collection, though, was a page that my Mom had ripped from a magazine. The page featured the words of novelist George Eliot superimposed over a spectacular fall photo: "Delicious autumn. My very soul is wedded to it. And if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns." I immediately stopped my sorting and emailed this memorable quotation to my son, who - like his mother - prefers autumn over any other season.

Yesterday Chaney posted his newest creative project on his website - a short video that features an array of photographs that he had taken over the past few weeks in East Tennessee in an attempt to capture God's autumnal artistry. When I watched it, I smiled as George Eliot's words appeared on my MacBook, superimposed over my son's photographs of fall foliage. Delicious autumn, indeed.

Welsh melody

When I accompanied the Class of 2009 from First Baptist Nashville on their mission trip to Wales in July, our team visited the village of Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch on the island of Anglesey. This memorable name means "St. Mary's Church in the hollow of the white hazel near a rapid whirlpool and the Church of St. Tysilio of the red cave" and is officially the longest recognized place name in the United Kingdom. During our obligatory stop at James Pringle Weavers Visitor Centre, I recognized a tune being played by the harpist who was situated near the snack bar. This was a hymn tune, one that I knew I could find in The Baptist Hymnal, but for the life of me I couldn't recall the title of the hymn. On the drive back to our holiday homes in Pwhelli, the other sponsors and I repeatedly hummed the tune and tried to conjure up the words to the hymn, but only fragments came to mind.

This morning when I awoke, I realized that I was once again humming this tune. Why was it lodged in my mind, I wondered? Then I suddenly remembered: As Paul and I walked down the aisle to join Immanuel Baptist Church last Sunday, this was the very hymn that the congregation was singing. Hymn #497 in the 1991 edition of the The Baptist Hymnal is "The Master Hath Come"- Words: Sarah Doudney (1841-1926); Tune: ASH GROVE; Music: Welsh Melody.

I particularly love the second stanza of this hymn:

"The Master hath called us; the road may be dreary,

And dangers and sorrows are strewn on the track;

But God's Holy Spirit shall comfort the weary;

We follow the Savior and cannot turn back;

The Master hath called us: tho' doubt and temptation

May compass our journey, we cheerfully sing:

'Press onward, look upward,' thro' much tribulation;

The children of Zion must follow their King."

Pressing onward, looking upward, I follow my King.