Background: When a college kid, I remember taking a handful of yellow Vivarin caffeine pills on a rainy Thursday and staying up for two-and-a-half days on a brown cloth sofa with collapsed cushions and reading The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter, McCullers’ breakthrough enduring heartrending novel. I read it as an eighteen-year-old and have reread it since then, along with her other works.

McCullers has a gift for characterization. If you are a caring reader, you come to care deeply for her characters. You know of John Singer and Mick, e.g. in The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter. They live in your thinking, in your imagination, in your heart. They are in fact quite real to you, even though you know that they don’t have a SSN or driver’s license.

If you’re of a literary bent, this will be self-evident. Twain’s Huck and Jim are as real to you–perhaps more real–than any so-called news of the day. (If you trust TV entertainers/pontiffs, this explains a lot.) Hamlet is as real to me as anyone. Why? Because, among other things, he (and the play bearing his name) speaks to the human condition, to what we creatures are like, to what it means to draw breath and to live, laugh, grow up, grow old (at least sometimes), and to grow towards our ends, to decline.

Recently I was in Pennsylvania and read my some of my favorite short stories, one of which was McCullers’ “The Sojourner.” In the edition of short stories I was reading from, “The Sojourner” was one of Elbert Erskine’s (the famous editor) favorites, too. He, of course, worked with and edited the writing of Faulkner, John O’Hara, Cormac McCarthy, Carson McCullers, among others. Those names merit taking heed.

A line that grabbed me: The story is about what it means to journey–to sojourn–in imagination when one’s ‘reality’ is sadly much less than one’s ambitious inner promptings/imagined life. Another way of expressing the idea is to say that one’s outer visible life is often sadly less than the life one imagined for oneself.

I was reading from one of my shelves of collections of short stories.

Then this line: “There’s nothing that makes you so aware of the improvisation of human existence as a song unfinished. Or an old address book” (Carson McCullers, “The Sojourner,” New York: Dell Publishing, 1982), 329-330.

The main character, John Ferris, continues to journey, to sojourn, to live (where exactly?). That’s the key question.

McCullers, when she is on point, tears your heart out.

I love to travel. And in my position, I travel a great deal. My most recent trip was to Pennsylvania. Due to an unforeseen change, I had to rent a car at the airport in Harrisburg, PA. No problem, I thought, I’ve rented scores of times. (See where this is going?)

So my drive to Atlanta’s airport early in the morning had been uneventful, the way one wants it. And I had the friendliest shuttle driver in ATL, who dropped me and the other travelers at the South Terminal. I knew early on this was going to be a good trip. I mean, if you can get through ATL traffic, and (even though I had to park in the Park ATL PARK-RIDE, I was okay with that, because the shuttles seemed to be running smoothly. So again, I thought, no problem. This was going to be a good trip.

The flight was on time, too. So as I sat in the terminal and sipped my coffee and texted my wife that all was going well, I ate a snack she had packed me, and read more of Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls, and glanced up occasionally to people-watch others in the airport. (If you ever want to see more of human variety than nearly any other place, an airport is your place.)

Anyway, the plane pulled up, and I watched the crews through the window do their routine checks and services. I’d only read twenty pages or so before it was time to board. Again, no issues. We boarded on time, took off on time, and the morning was clear, and I had a window seat. So I looked out to see the mountains of north GA come into view just a few minutes after we were airborne.

I read some more of the novel on the flight, and in less than two hours we were safely on the ground in Pennsylvania. I grabbed my gear and walked across the way to the rental car kiosks. And then things changed.

I walked up to the Budget counter.

“Good afternoon, ma’am. I would like to rent a compact car.”

“Name!”

I told her my name.

“I don’t see your reservation,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am, I know. I don’t have one. I need to rent one, please, a vehicle.”

“We don’t have any vehicles,” she said, about as concerned as a jar of mayonnaise.

“Um … okay.”

She never looked up from her keyboard; she acted like she wanted me to burst into flames and burn in front of her.

I looked down at the Avis counter. No one was in line, so I thought maybe I’d have better luck there.

A young woman was smacking gum and sitting alone scrolling on her smartphone behind the counter.

“Good afternoon, ma’am. I’d like to rent a vehicle, please. I don’t have a reservation, though.”

“We are out of vehicles,” she said, and popped a bubble inside her gums. “There’s a conference in town.”

A man in front of me in the Hertz line, only separated by a red rope chain like one sees in movie theaters, overheard our conversation. He looked at me and said, “They told me the same thing and I went online and made a reservation just now. I have a car,” he said. He rolled his eyes and smiled, as if he understood my exasperation.

So I walked over to the chairs alongside the wall, pulled out my phone, logged onto the Budget site, reserved the cheapest vehicle I could find, received a confirmation number by email with my pickup time (about three minutes later).

I walked back over to Luciferette, I mean, the girl at the Budget counter, and said, “I’d like to pick up my reserved vehicle, please.”

“Name!”

I gave her my name.

“I don’t see your name.”

“Would you like this confirmation number? Would that help?” I asked.

“Yes,” she returned, not looking up.

I read it to her.

“License and credit card,” she said.

It took all of about two minutes. I initialed and signed and she, mumbling while looking down at her keyboard, said, “A 19. Out the door to your left. Bring it back full or you are charged $11.39 a gallon.”

I walked out and had never been so glad to see a rental vehicle.

The morning had begun so well. The flight had been good. The views of my beloved mountains were perfect. But Luciferette had told me that Budget had no vehicles. Then I reserved one online and had one within three minutes.

I could feel my heart racing under my black Columbia wind parka. And the girl smacking the bubble gum at Avis had given me the same spiel. But here I was, walking out to get in the rental car.

So I placed my bag in the truck’s bed, and put my hotel coordinates in my iPhone and drove the hour or so to the hotel where I was staying for this trip. When I pulled into the hotel parking lot, I was still mad about the Budget minion. I almost dreaded seeing what experience awaited me at the desk when I checked in at the hotel. But it had to be done.

I walked up to the counter. “Good afternoon,” I said, and gave the young man my name and military identification card and my credit card.

“Here you go, sir. Here’s your ID back, and your credit card and room keys. Here’s the WiFi code. The easiest way to access your room is by walking just down this hall, and the elevators will be on the right. Once you exit the elevator, your room will be down the hall to your right. What else may I help you with, sir?”

I almost collapsed on the floor in front of him. For a second, I was speechless. Was I on the same planet as I was when at the Budget desk in Harrisburg, PA?

I looked at the young man’s nametag. Cole, it said.

(Cole, you’ve no idea how you have encouraged me today. No idea.)

Somehow I did not collapse in front of Cole at the hotel’s front desk. “Thanks, brother. Much appreciated.”

I walked up to my room, pulled out my uniform to change and get prepared to go see soldiers soon.

The story is probably an old and familiar one. Folks are a mixed bag. Some lie to you and never bat an eye. They might even tell you they’ve no vehicles available to rent. Still others might smack bubble gum behind the counter and pop bubbles inside their mouths and tell you they’ve no vehicles available to rent.

But then you might also meet a nice man who tells you how he went online a moment before, and PRESTO!, vehicles appeared like manna from heaven, ready to be rented.

Or you might walk into your hotel, and meet a nice young man with the name of Cole, who seems to care, who does his job well, who is, well, just kind. And you might feel your pulse slow, and your breathing slow, and you might think, and say silently to yourself, It’s okay, old boy. Remember: a mixed bag. Pick the good ones.

It had rained on and off today after church. Temperatures were in the high 40s and low 50s. Skies were gray. But a short hike was just what I needed.

I put the leash on my old hiking buddy Brewster, our old gray shepherd of many years. He looks like an old wolf when he’s out in the woods. He loves these hills and creeks.

We took off for a short afternoon hike. The creeks were running strong; the deer were out.

I don’t know how folks are not moved by such things. It’s my soul food.

Hope you enjoy some pictures as much as Brewster and I enjoyed the hike and feel of the creeks rolling.

Returned home after Sunday school, church, and lunch.

Saw this fellow browsing in back yard.

This morning before Sunday school and church I walked onto the upper deck and looked east after the storms had passed.

Completed Delbanco’s biography of Melville this week. It helped solidify my appreciation for Moby Dick, Billy Budd, and “Bartleby, the Scrivener,” especially.

I’m reading Moby Dick again in 2023, and like the best of the classics, it reaps massive dividends upon deep slow rereadings.

If you appreciate Moby Dick and Melville’s other masterpieces, Delbanco’s bio is worth your read.

My friend Jim shared with me again. Enjoy.

Not unlike a lot of Christian chaplains and believers, I would imagine, I have lots of Bibles. And I always read with a pencil, pen, or marker in hand, even when reading books other than Scripture. So my Bibles are marked up. Some passages are marked for homilies. I may have tiny sermon outlines in the marginalia. I may have people’s names that I know about written by a particular verse or paragraph. I have other passages underlined that I have memorized. On and on it goes. What follows below is a short story of encouragement from reading from one of my old Bibles today. It involves a man God brought into my life during a deployment in Iraq and of how God and my friend still minister.

This morning I was in Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians as part of my time in Scripture. But for some reason, I used one of my older Bibles that is falling apart. I used it for years as my main Bible from which to study and from which to craft homilies, etc. It has tons of my notes in it. As I came near to the end of chapter 15 of 1 Corinthians, the pages were all marked up with different colors of ink, and Post-it notes, and marginalia. And when I got to verse 58 of 1 Corinthians 15, a flood of memories washed over me, and I was about to get even more encouragement that I could have hoped for. Follow me.

Context: 1 Corinthians 15 is, of course, one of the New Testament’s greatest apologetics for the bodily resurrection of the crucified Christ. It is nearly 60 verses of empirical evidence of Jesus’ resurrection and of the guarantee of God raising all either unto life in Christ or unto condemnation due to rejecting the gospel. It’s one of those chapters in the Bible where even pagans read it and are moved either unto belief or hardened further into unbelief. How do I know? Because I have seen how people react in services where I have read the whole chapter stratight through and I have watched them. The Spirit acts upon people and one can see spiritual warfare occur right before one’s eyes.

In verse 58 of 1 Corinthians 15, Paul gives the imperative: “Therefore, my beloved brothers, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labor is not in vain” (1 Cor 15:58 ESV). My copy was underlined and emphasized and all of a sudden, a deluge of memories washed over me of the stalwart believers and buddies God sent me during that deployment. Then, at that very moment, I received a text message from one of those guys. He writes devotionals that he sends out to folks based upon his time in studying Scripture. True to my friend’s nature, it was a message of encouragment, of truth unvarnished, but with his remarkable gifting for motivating people unto action. I’ve known some bundles of energy in my life, but this friend of mine rivals any of them for sheer will and motivation. He’s as tough as they come and there is no quit in him, as the saying goes.

Encouragement: Why did I receive that text message from my friend at just the moment I was reading 1 Corinthians 15:58? Why, when I was letting all the emotions and memories and past Bible studies and choir rehearsals and devotionals and sermons and times of the Lord’s Supper, etc., why then?

The pagan could look at this and go, “Bah, humbug! It’s sheer accident, man. Get over it.” Okay, that could be. But then, if one is to be logically consistent, could I not turn around and say to the pagan, “Bah, humbug. You are a sheer accident. And your counsel is mere matter in motion. Dispense with you, you self-contradictory blob of protoplasm!”? See, the unbliever feels like he matters, that his words matter, and that I ought to pay attention to him. But if he were logically consistent, he is nothing. So he should just hush up. But it is interesting how they don’t hush up, the vocal bitter pagans. They just keep yammering.

But there I was … still looking at 1 Corinthians 15:58 in my old worn Bible. And I was remembering the ways my friend in Iraq motivated me amidst trials in ministry, and of how God grew the body of believers there, and of how those whom God gripped are still fighting the good faith of the faith. Paul’s words of encouragement are so clear: “Therefore, my beloved brothers, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labor is not in vain” (1 Corinthians 15:58, ESV).

I think I know why I received that text message from my friend at just this moment, and just when I was in this particular copy of Scripture, one of those where I’ve all kinds of notes by 1 Corinthians 15:58, and of why my buddy is still engaged in ministry, and of how iron sharpens iron, and on and on. Yes, I think I know why. And I bet you know why, too.