Six months after Carol Jean crossed to the next plane of existence, I felt a surge of emotion — grief, yes; anger, no, more frustration; determination, yes; and hope.
I poured it all into a poem that proclaimed I had sustained the worst body blow a man can take and emerged shaken, but not defeated. The emotion felt so stark that I took a selfie and drained all of the color from the picture as I shared the poem.
I’m not done. I still have things to say. I don’t know what they are, And I don’t know how I’ll say them, But sure as I feel, I feel that I’m not done.
I’m still here. I didn’t want to lose you, And I’m not the same without you, But there has to be a reason I’m still here.
Let’s find out What those things I have to say are And the reason to go on is. Let’s find out.
Not long afterward, I set the poem to music, and when I recorded the song for my first album in 15 years, New Dog Old Tricks, I added two things—a sixties-style “psychedelic” passage in the middle, and a different opening and closing line when I reprised the first verse: “God’s not done.”
I don’t think any creative people are done until their earthly vessel finally gives out. Oh, and have I mentioned my belief that all of us are creative people?
And our influence doesn’t necessarily end then, either. How many of us have found an old card or letter — or a bit of arts and crafts — from a lost loved one and been moved all over again?
If you’ve checked out the latest album by Willie Nelson, Paul McCartney, or Bob Dylan, you know that it’s true. When I was a little kid, I wrote a silly song called “Never Say Die Until You’re Dead.” Pretty good advice for a little kid.
If you think you’re too old, or your time has passed, or opportunity is lost, think again. You’re not done, either.
I couldn’t get back to sleep because of an earworm — “They’ll Know We Are Christians By Our Love.” It’s actually a pleasant melody and thought to “haunt” a person at 3 o’clock in the morning.
I wasn’t feeling unusually haunted or troubled, other than my typical self-chastisement for not getting work done. I was lying awake for no other reason than “They’ll Know We Are Christians By Our Love” kept playing in my head over and over — just the melody because all I know of the lyrics is the song title. It’s a simple and catchy tune with the simple, catchy and haunting theme that I keep returning to.
I thought about the “why” of what’s happening in the world, or perhaps the “why not.” Why do people who want to manipulate other people double down on fear and anger and outrage and hate — the mean campaign ads, and the nasty political accusations that border on falsehood or are outright falsehoods?
“Why not? It works.” Mean and nasty politicians keep getting elected and re-elected. But why does it work? Why are everyday folks so willing to succumb to fear and anger and outrage and hate and lies?
Why? Because they reject the message that we should love God — they treat God as if he doesn’t exist, or act as if — and love our neighbors, recognizing that everyone we meet is a neighbor.
“They Will Know We Are Christians By Our Love.”
Why reject the message of Christ? I suppose one could say that Christians can act out of fear and anger and outrage and hate as much as anyone else, so why do I point out the speck in a non-Christian’s eye while ignoring the logs in Christians’ eyes? Wait, I ought to notice that Jesus was focusing on the log in an individual’s eye — in my eye.
The only fear and anger and outrage and hate I can control is my own. I might feel the sting of your fear and anger and outrage and hate, but I can’t do anything about what’s in your heart and mind and soul. My own heart, mind and soul, however — those I can deal with.
I may never be able to explain why you fear or hate me — perhaps not me personally, but people who think and believe like me — but I can treat you with as much love as I can muster. They may be laws, to love God and love my neighbor, but I can’t (and don’t want to) force you to follow the law. When I finally yield to those two laws, there is no inclination to force at all — only love.
Why don’t others see the joy and peace that come from choosing to love? I suppose they see others who profess Christ who seem to live by the same principles of fear and anger and outrage and hate that pervade our world’s culture. I come back to the things that I can control, and I can’t even make my fellow Christians live by Christ.
“They’ll know I am a Christian by my love.”
That’s why I could not sleep, I think — because I know I am not loving with all my heart and all my mind and all my soul. It does me no good to lament a world where millions and billions seem to be living in fear and anger and outrage and hate, not if I don’t have love.
I write about the fruits of the Spirit all the time, but there’s a reason the first fruit on the list is love. I can preach joy and peace and kindness and all the rest until the cows come home, but if I don’t say it with love, I’m no better than a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.
When I say it with love, maybe others will see my joy and my gentleness and my kindness and think, “I could use some of that.” And as more of us begin to treat our neighbors with such love, we might change the world. It can’t happen by force, and it can’t happen quickly — only one heart, mind and soul at a time.
It’s funny, after you get into four-digit numbers, a hundred here or there doesn’t have the same impact. This is Day 2,200 of my 92-day challenge, the promise to myself back in 2020 that I would post something on this blog every day for at least three months. Seventy-two months is more than three.
I hit 2,100 consecutive daily posts on May 1, and while I usually check in when I reach a post that has two zeroes at the end, it just doesn’t feel as impressive as those posts with three zeroes, which only arrive every three years or so.
But this has been a pretty momentous 100 days.
I started reading again. Through the end of April, I had only read five books all year. That’s an abysmal number. I had been averaging more than a book a week for close to a decade before I tailed off and read only 31 books in 2025, but I was on track to finish 2026 with less than half of that sad number.
A guy who wants to write has to read. If you want your words to sing, you have to see how other conductors handle the orchestra. I knew one of my problems was that I had nearly stopped reading. And so I read five books in May, and 10 books in June, and five more in July. That felt better.
And maybe it showed and maybe it didn’t, but it felt like my writing got better as a result. After the anniversary of my last book release came and went, I started working harder on getting my next collection organized. I gave it a name — What I Came to Say — and stepped up my daily writing habit.
But I still was having trouble jumpstarting the daily writing habit I really wanted to practice — the storytelling. That breakthrough came this past week, and I wrote about that just a couple of days ago. Who would have thought the secret to writing stories was to stop talking about writing and just. start. writing? (Well, I think I reached that conclusion a long time ago, but saying and doing have always been two different things, haven’t they?)
If I ride the momentum from these past 100 days, then post number 2,300 should find us in the midst of all sorts of mischief and announcements and pronouncements, Lord willing and the creek don’t rise. (And as anyone who has listened to my latest album knows, it doesn’t even matter if the creek rises or not.)
I really do hope to enjoy the rest of my life as a prolific and productive artist — how many good books can a guy put out starting at age 73? It’s a wonderful question to explore.
