Wandering

Important Things this Season

"And now these three remain: faith, hope and love..."

It's early December, and the North Georgia wind is growing colder. Snow fell in the mountains last week, fires are being stoked, and families are finally coming together again for the holidays.

Continue Reading my December 2003 Article.

Why I am a Christian (or, at least, part of a story in motion)

Stare long enough from the third floor of an apartment into the cool, bruise-colored absence of a late August night, and you will lose your senses. Your sense of time slips into the barrage of passing headlights shining liked focused, hyperactive fireflies as they glide irregularly down the highway. The soft murmur of humanity oozes from the cracks of your isolation and dances at the corner of your mind until you lose your sense of place. Your sense of loneliness, slides into the haze of your own heartbeat—a pulse that wraps around you like a velvet blanket of slow-burning fire. In that moment, every common sense skepticism melts away, and you are left with nothing but your own life and the color of the world around you—a color settling like silt at the base of your spine, tingling in an echo chamber of thought somehow lost in the bustle of everyday life.

Mother's Day

"Smokey Bones" barbecue is probably not the most extravagant of Mother’s Day lunch locations, but then again, my mother has never been one to demand extravagance. After sleeping in this morning (yes, we skipped church) my whole family circled our cards and gifts around the table in the center of the kitchen and watched my mom smile over our clumsy reminiscences at 11:30 in the morning. Then, piled in her Expedition, we drove to "Smokey Bones" here in Columbus. On the way we begged my mom to stop at "Hooters" for the “best Mother’s Day story ever!” But she simply shot us a couple of disapproving looks and we made our way the barbecue joint on the corner. It was a nice try!

I think my mother lives for days like these. Her three sons and her husband (finally) were all in the same place for a meal. We were all being loud and obnoxious and convincing her that she needed a new “happy dance”—a ritual Chris and I invented for Mom to show her joy in an activity by pumping both fists in the air like Ja Rule and rocking side to side. After lunch we came home and lunged about. This evening my dad, one of my brothers, Eric, and I went to Van Helssing for a little guy time and to give Mom some time alone. But, unlike me, she seemed to enjoy the solitude. She laid around the house most of the day, and she was fine with that. I guess when you have worked as hard and as long as her, it is nice to have a vacation from the hustle and bustle of every day life.

In my humble opinion, Mother’s Day must be the most underrated holiday in the country. Sure we celebrate the day at home with our mom’s, pump a few more dollars into the Hallmark portfolio, and buy cheesy gifts (mine was “James Earl Jones Reads the Bible”—a book on CD), but we rarely ruminate over the immense significance of the occasion. Easter, Christmas, Valentine’s Day—we nearly always spend some time pondering the origins of a holiday, but on Mother’s Day, we are content to accept the responsibility of pampering our pamperer for one day, and moving on with our lives.

In a world degrading under the weight of the disintegrating family, and in a culture in which love has become more self-centered than self-sacrificing, we should really ponder more the significance of these beautiful creatures who dedicate their lives to giving us life. For centuries mothers have held this planet together, and, if my own household is any indication, they remain the lynchpin of a fully functioning home (especially a home with no daughters) yet I know that with the exception of today, I rarely ponder my mother. Rather, I take for granted her love and sacrifice, and overlook her tireless dedication, charity, and loyalty.

In truth, my mother (as many of yours I am sure) means the world to me. She is my rock here on earth when all other ground seems so fragile and prone to shift. She is a smile when things are rough, and one voice who will always listen when I call. She is the source of what little virtue and charity I possess, and she is the catalyst of everything human and good in my life.

Today, I think I will spend an extra moment pondering Mother’s Day, and a few extra minutes in prayer. In a world that seems so vulnerable to this college grad, sometimes it seems that my mom, along with the rest of my wonderful family (and, of course God) is the only sure thing I have.

Commencement / My Commencement Address

Saturday May 1, 2004, was my commencement at Berry College. For a week my classmates and I worried about the thunderstorms that were predicted to dampen (no pun intended) our ceremonies, but by 2:30 yesterday afternoon, the sun was shining and our graduation day was graced with beautiful, cloudless warm weather.

Commencement is an interesting time. I could blog for ages about all of the humor and good times associated with the arrival of all of my relatives Friday night and the excitement of my classmates in the preceding (and succeeding) days, but I will refrain. It is interesting to me, however, how we celebrate the passage of students from one stage of life to the next. They are herded together and recognixed, if only briefly, for their successes. They are showered with gifts and praise. It think it is good--but I must say, that I cannot imagine that period of time without my family. The school-wide moment of applause is nice, but the best part of commencement, without a doubt, is the interaction, one-on-one, with your closest family and friends. In the end, their happiness can outweigh all of the acclaim in the world.

I was lucky enough to be named student speaker for the ceremony, and the following is my commencement address. To preface the speech, I will note only this. Two weeks ago I was named NFA National Pentathlon Champion, which is kind of like best college speaker in the nation (all-around). They announced that at the ceremony before I spoke, and I knew they would, so I was under a great deal of pressure to perform. You can see why failure was my topic of choice.

Commencement Address Berry College, Spring 2004 John Coleman

Three nights ago I sat worriedly writing my goodbye to the graduates of 2004. This is an immense pressure. I knew Dean Carver would stand and pronounce my proficiency in public speaking and the thousands of parents in the audience would cross their arms and tritely respond “We’ll see about that.” I could deliver Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech while standing on my head and some people would still say that I sounded too much like a used car salesman or a slightly effeminate Pat Sajak. You see my predicament.

Yet as I tossed and turned, batting around speech titles like “My Redneck Jihad”, “Shalyn, Get off the Shed!”, and “Scott Colley, Man of Action”—I realized in a flash of light that this is precisely the kind of thing Berry has prepared me for. You see, beyond Economics, anthropology, and horticulture (oops, scratch that)—Berry has prepared me to fail.

Ahhh…I see I have your attention, but before donors withdraw their support and Dean Carver spears me off the front of the stage like an unruly Tennis partner, let me clarify. You see, failure is not the catastrophe you and I often envision. Rather it is a choice and an opportunity.

Everybody fails. As a boy, Thomas Edison’s teacher told him he was too stupid to learn anything. As a soldier, former president Abraham Lincoln entered the Blackhawk War a Captain, and came out a private. Ben Affleck made Gigli. And while you and I sit at the cusp of graduation, F. Scott Fitzgerald flunked college, Steven Spielberg was a high school drop-out, and Winston Churchill flunked the sixth grade. Never give up, never surrender, and never show the prime minister a complex fraction or he whimpers like a baby.

Yet these men were defined by the fact they recovered from their failures well, and they were brave enough to fail in the first place. As NASA Administrator Daniel Goldin commented in his commencement address at MIT, “Not experiencing any failure in your life isn’t a sign of perfection; rather it is a sign that your goals aren’t bold enough.” No one fails at sitting at home watching Oprah or lounging in Valhalla sipping Café Latte! No one fails while deer pegging or gawking at Britney Spears. People fail when they take chances that might be beyond their reach.

A few years ago, Michael Jordan had a commercial in which he addressed his failures. “I’ve missed more than 9,000 shots in my career,” The Air Apparent declared. “I’ve lost almost 300 games. 26 times I’ve been trusted to take the game winning shot and missed. I’ve failed over and over again in my life—and that is why I succeed.” Now I thought MJ excelled because he had a 50 inch vertical and a killer fade-away, but the mentality is right. You’re gonna fail. Do it, move on, and succeed.

That is what Berry has taught me. We are not Harvard or MIT. On occasion, we care more about intramural football than neo-platonic philosophy; but when we want something we seek it with an unmatched persistence. My fellow graduates, you may have failed the comp exam, Humanities 200, and freshmen chemistry, but you made it here today, and that is a testimony to your dedication and hard work. After graduation you may be broke and living in Dean Willis’s basement, but if you keep on working, there is nothing you can’t overcome to succeed.

I once told my friend Mike Rupert that the key to success was a simple motto, “Work hard and show up on time.” I think Martha Berry would have liked that. She hit people up for money so often that it was easier to donate than to turn her away. She founded a school based on the idea that tenacity could overcome poverty, that work could decimate ignorance, and that one did not need a history of success to prevent failure—only a history of dedication and loyalty.

Today, we celebrate a great accomplishment my friends. After 4, 5, or 6 years, we are finally free to progress to the next stage in life. But in the midst of this success never become timid. A failure is better than a missed opportunity. Take a few chances when you leave here. Some things are worth the risk. This school has provided you with one of the best educations on the planet, now force the rest of the world to realize that.

Thank you for the time my friends. You all know how much I love this school and how much each of you has meant to me. Maybe this isn’t the speech of a champion, but at least if I have failed, I can still count that as success.

Congratulations class of 2004.

Update: For pictures of the affair (none of me) go to my good friend David Tanner's post on the subject.

Tacky Love

A few days ago I was making my way to a professor's house along a rural back road outside of Rome, Georgia, when on a hill to the left of the highway I noticed a huge piece of painted white ply board pinned firmly to a rickety old telephone post. On the ply board was the simple phrase “Love You Lynn” painted in huge, black letters. It wasn’t professional. It wasn’t paid for or properly zoned. It was just there—an impulse of love displayed in the most public and dorkalicious way.

There is something brilliant about tacky love. It is unafraid and unashamed. It is loud and obnoxious. It manifests itself in the most public and imperfect ways. It is spray-painted on overhangs and water towers across the country. It is redneck, rough, and unrehearsed; and yet, in some ways it is more sincere and more beautiful than the most stunning recitation of Donne or brilliant rendition of Romeo and Juliet. It is tacky. It is brave.

As a teenager I knew all about tacky love. We all did. Cheap dates and senior proms are the breeding ground for such public displays. I remember a time when a Publix rose bouquets, cheap tuxes, and too-tight suits were the norm in my dating life; but, sadly, as I have grown in “sophistication,” my appreciation for such things has faded away. I constantly fret over public reaction to my unrestrained displays of affection. I worry what others might think poorly of me selling myself so completely on the concept of love or adoration. I feel stupid and vulnerable. I convince myself that tacky love is somehow beneath me—yet, thankfully, no matter how far I slip, there is always a “Love You Lynn” sign that reminds me of better days.

Thank God for signs like the one I saw Friday. And thank God I live in Georgia—a bastion of unabashed, homegrown tackiness. Our flags wave proudly from poles on our front porches. Yellow ribbons dot our mailboxes and door frames. Crosses anoint hillsides where sheep and cattle graze. Our families are loud and loyal; and if we fall in love with a beautiful Southern lady, heaven help us we are not afraid to paint a sign in our garage and staple gun it to a telephone pole or propose a life together in neon letters on the scoreboard at a Braves game.

I hope Lynn appreciates her tacky love—I did. After all, what do any of us need, if not an adoration so deep it discards beauty and dares to be tacky.