Pack Up The Babies, Grab The Old Ladies...

I just finished a mini-book-publicity-gig, from hereon known as Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show.  I first traveled back to the motherland, Arkansas, for three book signings, then wrapped up the Show with two television interviews, one on Tuesday in Dallas (DayStar) and the final one yesterday in South Bend (The Harvest Show).  As you know, and may be tired of hearing, I've written a Christmas book and the selling window on such a thing is rather short so I'm trying to make hay while the hay is still called to-hay.  I don't know how some of these folks do 16 or 20 city book tours...I really don't.

For the next couple of days, I'm going to give you a superfast overview of the BLTSS.  It really did go well.  I am completely humbled.

Friday, Nov. 13th - Took a shuttle to the airport, my driver said "just call me Animal."  I complied, I his only passenger.  Animal had a beard that could've doubled as an eagle's nest and hands the size of bear paws.  He had driven a cab in Co Springs for twenty years, so yes, he had some stories to tell, and yes, he told them. Upon arriving in Little Rock, AR, I was greeted by cherished friends who allowed me the use of their pickup over the weekend, gallavanting all over the Natural State that I was.  Earlier that morning, they waved goodbye to husband/dad as he left for another Army tour, this time eight months, over there in harm's way.  Terry, Charlotte, Clinton, and Lauren, God bless you.  And Terry, may God keep your precious life safe.

I headed down a familiar stretch of interstate known as I-30 towards Malvern, AR.  The use of a pickup allowed me a little freedom to see some old friends, one being Justin.  Back when I was a pastor, Justin was our associate pastor, but we (somehow) got his title changed to Pastor of Spiritual Formation.  It makes me chuckle now to ponder it.  Friends, this was way back before all the "spiritual formation" buzz; I'm convinced most of the people didn't know what in heaven's name that title meant, and Justin and I were really just figuring it out ourselves.  I can guarantee you he was the very first Pastor of Spiritual Formation in Arkansas.

I met Justin in Malvern at the Waffle House, that fine southern eatery with the distinctive yellow sign.  We sat a booth next to the jukebox; he had water, I ordered the cheese-eggs and coffee.  And for about forty-five minutes, two now older friends got to talk, laugh, and remember, accompanied by the all-the-rage sounds of Taylor Swift and a waitress who seemed to enjoy nothing better than waiting on two old boys.  Thanks, Lord, for the good times.

From the Waffle House, I headed toward Nashville, AR, home of the people I call Dad and Mom.  If you've read anything here before, you know that I love dusk like some folks love Taylor Swift. Well, the drive to Nashville was wrapped in dusk and an easy listening station that spun tunes from Boz Scaggs and some vintage Sting.  The landscape still had some autumn leaves hanging on by a thread, but the bright oranges that evening were the caps and vests of deer hunters; the next morning was opening day.  It made me grin.  While most men in the state would be shouldering rifles and scoping down bucks, Brother Love would be wielding a pen signing books for their wives and the babies and the little old ladies.  

Halle, halleluja...