The Flog – The Fabry Log

Thirty years ago today I took a walk. A long walk. I was living in Mainz, Germany, home of Herr Gutenberg. I was on a summer missions trip, living with a Canadian family with four children. It seemed like a huge family. And I had made up my mind to walk. I think better when my legs are moving.

On the walk I made up my mind to ask a girl I knew to marry me. She was four years older than me, but I decided that really didn't matter.

I went to a little German jewelry shop and bought a gold heart and had him inscribe, "Ich Liebe Dich" on it. Maybe that was not on this walk, it was probably a later one, because it would have taken a lot of faith to believe she would say "yes" to me.

It was clear to me that day that I was to do this thing. I heard God telling me, "This is the one." The Proverb that morning, chapter 18, had a telling verse. "He who finds a wife finds a good thing..." I was sure. There was no doubt. The walk confirmed it. So I went back to the family's home, calculated the time difference, and called her at her parent's house in Columbus, Ohio. I knew she was visiting there because she had written a letter saying such. (For those who don't know, letters are things you write and send in the mail that take a long time to get to the other person.)

No one told me it's bad form to propose over the phone from Germany. I'm not proud of that decision, but I was 21. I knew very little about life. I did know I should talk with her father and ask his permission, which I eventually did. But why go through that talk with George if she said no, right? Looking back, it feels a little selfish, a little self-protected to propose over the phone. It's something a boy does, not a man. But admitting that shows I've grown a little. It is what it is.

The phone had a counter with numbers on it. I am not making this up. On local calls it moved at a snail's pace. On long distance it moved faster. An overseas call was like watching fruit on a slot machine. So I got up the nerve and dialed and watched the numbers click click click as I talked.

Even while proposing I was counting the cost. I just realized that. This money thing, spending anything, has haunted me my whole life. If funeral homes ever have casket sales, I will probably time my death to coincide. But I digress.

I can't remember what I said or how I said it. I think I wrote it down and told her I took a walk that day and made a decision. I also remember the butterflies and fear, but also the resolve. And I remember her laugh and surprise and, dare I say, joy when she heard the question. I like to think I got down on one knee, but I don't think I could see the counter on the phone from down there. In my heart I was kneeling.

And then I remember hearing her tell me she would think about it and call me back.

I am not making this up.

Seriously, she said she'd call me back. Which, now that I think about it, was a considerate thing since the numbers were churning so quickly.

I thought it was over. I figured I'd hear her say, "Well, this is very nice of you. I'm honored. Why don't we talk about it when you get back? When you're a little older?" I wondered what my mother would look like with an "I Love You" gold heart around her neck.


Then the phone rang.

She said yes. I'll be your wife.

July 18, 1982.

Thirty years ago today.

In the car, driving from point A to point B, I hit the radio scan button. It wound up on an oldies station. FM dial. Full bandwidth but crackling music. A flash from the past. Late 1960s? Early 1970s? I was 9 or 10 and not a hipster, but I still liked the song. I remembered this one but couldn't place the voice--was it Mama Cass?

But you've gotta make your own music
Sing your own special song,
Make your own kind of music even if nobody else sings along.

For some reason the lyrics hit me deeper than what may have been intended by the author. You can read those words and interpret them as, "Be yourself, man. Do your own thing. Whatever makes you feel groovy, do it and don't care about the people who drag you down. Man."

That kind of sentiment was prominent in the 1960s. The individual became king. This led to a lot of personal disasters that leaked onto others who were also enthroning themselves. Every man a king and no one a servant.

There's another interpretation that strikes me more than 40 years later. There's music inside each of us. Art and creativity waiting to emerge. Most of the time we're too afraid of what others will think. We play our songs to an unseen audience of critics and decide to play it safe and give them what they want--or perhaps we give them what we think they want so we'll get the desired response. In other words, we play to the applause or play to avoid the catcalls. We don't play authentically from the heart because we're afraid.

Living is risky. Loving is, too. The struggle is finding the unique song God gave you and singing it loud, confidently, no matter what the response. Maybe you'll have others singing along today. Or it might feel a little lonely. Everyone else has drums, a big band, and you're sitting alone with a kazoo.

Ultimately, the "make your own kind of music" mantra feels hollow to me. Maybe the reason I identified with it is the truth that left to our own devices, we're always going to make music that doesn't satisfy our souls. We can only take the tunes so far and wind up like Jackson Browne's Everyman, always searching, always feeling "a day away from where I want to be." There's a deeper, more meaningful kind of music/art we were created to make that can only come when I slip my trembling hand into the one who made me and put the music inside.

When you get to that point, not enthroning yourself but stepping off the throne in humility, the music you were created to make will bubble to the surface. And you'll be content with its reach no matter what the fans or critics say. You'll be content with God and a kazoo.

It's almost like your own father dying, seeing the news that Andy Griffith died today. I suppose that's because I confused Mayberry with my home town and thought my father was Andy Griffith when I was a child. See the comparison at the left and below.

The Andy Griffith Show began in 1960, the year before I was born. It ran until 1968 and I recall mixing up the man on the screen and the man who walked in the front door each day. They both were handsome, lanky, had striking voices, and walked with a confidence that came from some other place. As if the road had brought them and taught them something they wanted to pass along if you'd take the time to listen.

Andy settled most problems by being kind, generous, and thinking of others. At least on the TV show. This was another reason I confused him with my father. He seemed to be able to solve just about any problem with kindness and thoughtfulness.

My dad and Andy were only 6 years apart in age, wore their hair short, and had gentle hands.

When Barney wanted to sing in the choir, Andy helped the performance. When Aunt Bee was almost taken in by a suitor, Andy was there.

But the real draw of the show was Opie's relationship with Andy. When Opie killed the mama bird and his father sat on his bed and talked him through the guilt and shame, it was as if my own father were sitting there. At the end, when Opie had to release the birds, his father is the one who opened the window to wake him to the truth. At the end, when they're on the front porch, Andy and Opie are together in a scene that reverberates in my mind and heart.

Opie: Cage sure looks awful empty don't it, Paw?

Andy: Yes, son, it sure does. But don't the trees seem nice and full.

I'm guessing there were others like me who confused their dads with Andy Griffith. Or didn't have a loving father and found one in the TV version. Andy Griffith made me want to be a better man, a better dad. Not a bad career synopsis.

The world is a sadder place because of his passing. But somewhere the birds are singing. And the trees are nice and full. Probably right outside the window.