It’s Sunday morning and countless numbers of people are going to various houses of worship, and they keep on shooting. It’s the first day of the workweek and millions of people are returning to their places of employment, and they keep on shooting. It’s Tuesday and the week has gotten off to its regular challenging start, and they keep on shooting. Wednesday looks like it always does, bringing with it the opportunity to coast through the rest of the week, and they keep on shooting. Thursday brings confidence that we have done well so far this week, and they keep on shooting. Friday brings visions of joy and rest for the next two days ahead, and they keep on shooting. Saturday is that day to expend enormous amounts of energy to catch up on chores and spend precious time with family, and they keep on shooting. Sunday rolls around again and the cycle commences again, and they aren’t exhausted of shooting.

Fordyce, Arkansas, a small hamlet of just over three thousand people. A place nestled somewhere deep in the heart of country that God must love, because no one outside of Arkansas has a clue where it is. Fordyce is a place in my great state. The people of Fordyce did all that we all do each day of the week, not conscious of the they that keeps on shooting. Then, on this past Friday, they entered the one and only grocery market in town where they decided to have target practice. So far four dead and seven injured to various levels of harm. Who would have thought that they would disturb the tranquility of Fordyce, Arkansas. Some did say that this doesn’t happen here, but they don’t care about the location, because they just keep on shooting. I know it’s not true, but they seem almost omnipresent.

They just keep on shooting…

I’m old and blessed…hope you will be too.

Today is Father’s Day. Of course, there are some normal and customary things that have and will take place on this day; Father’s Day cards from family; texts from various people wishing me a Happy Father’s Day; a sermon from my pastor extolling all the facets of being a father, making sure to point out the flawless attributes of our heavenly father. This morning, as he was going through his sermon, I found myself thinking about the plethora of fathers that exists. There are good ones and bad ones, not so bad ones and a variety of others that fall at various points along the scale of measurement. During the forty-five years I’ve been a father, I think I’ve landed at enumerable measures along the scale. Being a father is one of those jobs, responsibilities, privileges that is sometimes scary, sometimes overwhelming, but in all a joy.

I remember the first time I saw each of my kids. The emotional state that first look caused was uncertainty to say the least. I was overjoyed to have this little human being come into my life, but my mind was filled with questions; for example, what I am supposed to do now, how will I care for them when they get sick; how I will answer the tough questions they are bound to present me; can I help prepare them for the life they’ll have ahead. Funny thing is they’re all adults now and I still find myself asking some of these same questions. I finally came to realize that as long they and I are still alive, I’ll continue to be that person, that father who stands in the gap for challenges that confront them. Being a father is a job one never resigns from. It ends much like part of the vow taken in a marriage…’til death do us part.

On this Father’s Day, I can say without doubt to my three kids it has been a privilege to be your father. It hasn’t always been easy; however, it’s been a gift from God to experience your life to this point. As I’m getting older and dealing with health issues that make life more challenging, I pray that I’m around for years to come to see you, to be with you and watch you experience a few senior years. I’ll still be asking myself those same questions: what I am supposed to do now, how will I care for them when they get sick; how I will answer the tough questions they are bound to present me; can I help prepare them for the life they’ll have ahead.

Thank God for the privilege of being a father to you (Felicia, Cecily, and Andrew). And kiddos, thank you for allowing me to be a father to you.

I’m old and blessed…hope you will be too.

I remember when I was a kid less than twelve years old, my mother would take my siblings and me to visit my dad’s grave. He served in the army during the Korean conflict. And, although the U.S. military led the United Nations’ expeditionary force, its involvement was tied only to a UN Security Council resolution, because the UN itself cannot declare war. Consequently, the conflict in Korea did not technically constitute a war. (The preceding was a Googled answer to the question of whether the U.S was at war with North Korea.) I didn’t fully understand the importance of these visits through brushes to visit my dad’s grave until much later. I now recall us placing artificial flowers there, after cleaning overgrowth that had taken over during the previous year. The graveyard was somewhere down a gravel road, not resembling a graveyard at all. Those annual visits always resulted in chigger bites, itching, and scratching for days afterwards. And so was the experience in an old Black cemetery that had no regular maintenance.

Understanding the importance of Memorial Day until I was about seventeen years old was impersonal. I had gained knowledge of that day through reading history and making visits to my dad’s grave. Thousands of young people had died in the name of supporting freedom for Americans. Because of these sacrifices, we Americans had set aside the last Monday in May to pay homage. When I was in college, I became more conscious of the mistreatment Black soldiers, who had served abroad, received upon returning home. This generated a conflict in me that questioned whether I should celebrate Memorial Day. Fortunately, that dissonance was short-lived when it became obvious to me that the sacrifices Black soldiers made going to war for America was no less valuable than anyone else’s.

The Vietnam war was the first military conflict that became personally disturbing to me. Living in the backwoods of America, I was beginning to see how the tentacles of the United State’s Military complex can reach out, draft, and train common Joe Americans to be warriors for any cause our leaders see fit. I clearly recall when a young man from my neck of the woods returned home in what was pieces. I say that because his casket was sealed at the funeral. His extended hometown family couldn’t experience viewing of his remains. This experience began a different understanding of what Memorial Day means. From that point, moving forward, I would recognize Memorial Day as a time to give tribute to people who had died during my time here on earth. I would see young men with babyfaces, drape in military garb, making their way through airports, on there way to God knows where. The years have taught me that paying honor to the warrior is an honorable thing to do. Our warriors don’t start the wars, and in many cases aren’t even aware of the reason for destructive conflict, but they do pay the heaviest of prices.

I now have a grandson who serves in the Marines. He’s not yet thirty years old; however, he’s done well. He’s achieved a respectable amount of rank, and he’s proud to serve his country. I’m supportive of his decision to serve in the manner he’s chosen. There have been young people in my church and the broader community in which I live who also have served in the military, again making it important that I recognize the personal sacrifices they’ve chosen to make.

I’m old and blessed…hope you will be too.