It's 9am on a crisp Memorial Day weekend, and my oldest son and I are sitting on the aluminum bleachers of our town's lone high school.  It's Graduation Saturday, and for all the years I've lived in Mayberry and have received graduation "announcements" from our church's youth, I'm embarassed to say that I never realized those things were actual invitations (note to self: make sure sons' graduation invitations have the phrase "You're Invited" in them).  It's one of those small-town idiosyncrasies that non-natives have to learn on the fly.  It took me ten years, but at least I'm finally here.

Sitting there as the last of the seniors assembled in the south end zone, I knew I'd get to see five of my church's youth flip their tassels.  I knew I'd hear hoots and hollers as folks strolled across the stage to receive diplomas.  I didn't know I'd see the entire senior class interrupt the middle of the ceremony with a nifty dance routine that was obviously the result of some serious rehearsing.  Nor did I anticipate the bellowing horn from the mac truck parked in the parking lot across the way when one student's name was called.

But the biggest surprise of the whole affair came from the words of the class Salutitorian, Elizabeth Dinkins.  Her speech begin innocently enough with the anticipated words about what has been achieved and what promise awaits.

And then, out of nowhere, she says this:

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I grew up in a family of avid backpackers, and at an early age I learned about switchbacks. A mountain trail does not travel from base to summit in a straight line. Instead, the path up a mountain is marked by switchbacks, or one hundred and eighty degree turns in the path that make the slope more gradual and the climb more manageable. As a child, this rather roundabout path infuriated me. I asked my dad why the people who blazed the trail didn’t go in a straight line from bottom to top. Dad explained that such a path would be too steep to climb without injury.

In a long hike, gradual switchbacks characterize the first few miles, typically through wooded terrain with a less than spectacular view. When you break the tree line for the first time, you are struck with your first glimpse of the view that you have been climbing for hours to see. You think that you are almost to the summit. You are wrong. Above the tree line, the view is indeed beautiful, but it is there that the hard work truly begins. The wind whips faster. The air grows thinner. The boulder field lies between you and the summit, and the intensity of your climb only increases. The path is less distinctive and your footing is less sure. It is hard work. It is slow work. The summit is close, but the final steps are a rock scramble, and the most challenging part of your trek.

So it is with life. Each of us will experience personal setbacks and obstacles, some of which will appear insurmountable. These personal challenges are not failures; they are switchbacks. They make our journey towards our goal less direct, but, in the end, more manageable. These switchbacks work to develop our character. It is character rather than accomplishments or knowledge that will shape the way we live our lives.

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It's now around 9:45am, and I am floored.  What an amazingly beautiful thing to say to a group of 138 high school graduates who, in a sense, have successfully climbed one mountain but now stand at the base of yet another.  They need to know that it won't be all smooth-sailing.  They need to know that there will be challenges along the way, setbacks; all the while looking at the peak and wondering why in the world they're walking to the side of it instead of straight up.  They need to know that this is the way life works, that you don't always achieve your goals and fulfill your calling the first time around. 

It's exactly what those eighteen-year olds need to her.  But you know what?  It's what we all need to hear, every last one of us.  I know it's what I need to hear.

Later that weekend I would seek out Elizabeth to congratulate her and thank her for her message, asking if I could get a copy of her speech and use it in this blog.  She seemed genuinely surprised and pleased that her words had touched the heart of someone besides those navy blue robed and capped classmates right in front of her; that it had reached all the way into the upper left corner of the aluminum bleachers.  That's the beautiful thing about words from the heart - they take on a life of their own, carrying far beyond the audience we intended them for.

So now I'm a fan of switchbacks.  See that picture above?  It's the new background on my cell phone, so I see it all the time. I'm even going to try and think in switchbacks now.  If I'm walking from the church to the coffee shop up the street for a quick cup of jo, I might just take a less-than-straight path through a side street or two.  If I've got a task before me, I may refrain from plunging head-first into it with wreckless abandon and instead take a more introspective, roundabout approach.  And when I hit a snag and things don't go like I hoped they would, I'm going to do my best amidst the disappointment to heed Elizabeth's wisdom: it's not failure.  It's just a switchback. Make the 180-degree turn after a brief stop to take in the scenery and keep going.

In case you're wondering, this is not my typical M.O.  I'm a perpetual list-crosser-offer.  I'm a straight line kinda guy.  I'm a classic child of the Western world: set a goal, take the steps necessary, and you'll achieve it. Face it: switchbacks are not in our DNA.

But the journey of life is not all about us.  It's about the journey itself; and the thing is, that journey is more winding and bending than we give it credit for.  And like Elizabeth said so eloquently, switchbacks develop our character; and in the end it's character that truly defines us and not the various mountain peaks we conquer.  If we're in the midst of a switchback, that's the time when we're showing people who we are and what we're made of.  Not when we get to the top.

It's 11am, and the graduation service is over.  I'm seeking out my church youth, dispensing congratulatory hugs and taking pictures. I'm so incredibly proud of them.  I'm thinking about the fact that the son of mine at my side will be doing this himself before his mother and I know it.

But I'm not going to lie: I'm also thinking about switchbacks. A lot.  Who knows, I may be in one right now. If so, it's good to know that's where I am.  At least I'm still on the journey, moving forward.  And even when it doesn't always feel like it, upward.

This is what you do when you live in Mayberry and you're stuck at the Andy Griffith Playhouse for over two hours while your son is at play practice, and you check out the Andy Griffith monument that TV Land put there a few years back. Sure glad Barney wasn't around to nip me in the bud.

It's 8am on a picture-perfect May morning, and I'm standing outside my oldest son's elementary school. In just a minute I will throw myself into the deep dark abyss known as EOG proctoring - that's End of Grade Exams, if you didn't know.  It's a staple at every North Carolina school for third grade and up; the standardized test to end all standardized tests and supposedly determine a student's academic worth and whether they are suited to progress to the next grade.

EOG's are very much like a collective consumption of the worst kind of cough medicine, except instead of the few seconds of a quick gulp it's more like an intravenious administration; a slow drip-drip dragged out over 3-4 hours over multiple days.  No one likes these things - not the students, not their parents, not the teachers, not the administrators.  About the only fans of EOGs I can fathom are paper manufacturers and whatever company produces those number two pencils.  Maybe if they called them OWL's and had the principal dress up like Dumbledore it'd be a little more interesting.  A little.

This is my second year of proctoring.  I take some pride in knowing that I'm important enough to be required by the state. The list of what we can do is far eclipsed by the list of what we can't.  We can't eat or drink, read a book, chew gum, play on our cell phone, talk to the kids, touch the test materials, leave to go to the bathroom, leave before the last test is done.  On the "can" side, we're allowed to breath oxygen and stand or sit, so we've got that going for us.

It's a long three to four hours.

So why do I do it?  It's a question I thought about at length today during my final EOG shift (add "thinking to yourself" to the "can do" list).  Here's what I came up with:

Someone has to do it.  There aren't many folks eager to give up an entire morning to do this sort of thing for free.  So the school administrator commissioned with finding proctors are always very grateful when you say yes.  I admit, it gives you a good warming feeling to make someone so visibly happy that they smile ear-to-ear, yelp with glee and put aside common decorum to give you a full-body hug. I try to remember that smile, yelp and hug about two hours into the affair.

It's a show of solidarity.  They didn't have EOGs when I was in grade school, and it's a darn good thing or I may still be there.   The standardized tests we had (CAT tests, anyone?) were more about assessing smarts and less about determining grade placement.  So much emphasis is put on these tests - not just for the student's advancement, but for the teacher's professional success and the school's reputation.  I've always felt that these standardized tests measure how well one tests rather than how smart one is.  But it's what we've got; and if my kid and their school are having to go through this, the least I can do is go through it with them.

It's ministry, just different.  Don't worry, I'm not proseltyzing.  I can't talk, remember?  Besides, that's not my style anyway.  No, here's the thing: these kids are nervous.  The teachers are nervous.  They put on a brave face and they decorate the hallways and stuff, but you can feel it when you walk in the front door.  I'm not doing ministry in the traditional sense of the word.  But in my head I'm holding these kids and their teachers up in the light; and if my presence can be any kind of calming influence, then I feel like I've fulfilled my calling.

But the main reason I proctor EOGs is a pretty selfish one: I can't do a freakin' thing. The rules are clear from the minute the teacher begins her scripted speech until the last test is taken up.  During that time, the outside world does not exist.  I have no choice but to focus on those eighteen kids and one teacher, in that time, in that space.  I can't email folks, plan a sermon, read my latest study book.  catch up on the news.  My entire world is in that classroom.

And I need this, I really do.  Time and space are fluid entities for folks like me who tend to multitask not in two dimensions but three. My goal in any moment of a day is to determine how I can wring the most out of it; how much I can accomplish and cross off the perpetual "TO DO" list.  Proctoring EOGs, though, prohibits me from doing that, forcing me to live in the moment and only in the moment.  To "be present" in a very basic and essential way. 

I'm not going to lie to you - there are only so many ways one can stroll around a room, maneuvering between desks and making sure the students are staying on track.  There are only so many times you can read the feel-good positive posters and slogans plastered on the classroom walls (my favorite: the one designed like a road sign that said, U-Turn in your Homework, U get better grades).  There comes a point where you're almost uncomfortable in your own skin, and you'd give anything to see that warm sun and blue sky or check the email inbox you know is filling up by the second.

But if you relent and allow yourself, you just might wind up in this Zen-like state where time slows down.  Or maybe it doesn't slow down, you're just not as aware of it anymore.  You're not thinking about your coffee meeting later that afternoon or the bottomless email inbox or the unwritten sermon.  You're just there, in that room, with those kids and their teacher. And it's sacred ground, because it's where all of you are, right then and right there.  You're living in the moment, and turns out it's a beautiful place to be.

That's why I proctor EOGs.  Well, that and the snacks in the teacher's lounge before and after.  Someone made a killer cheese dip this year. Delish.

I woke up this morning and thought to myself: May 9.  Why does that date stick out in my head?  And then it occured to me: two years ago, I released Let Go, a seven-song EP and the result of a sabbatical I took in the summer of 2010.  If there ever was anything I've done as a labor of love, this was it.  Not only did I have space (physical and temporal) to write and push myself musically, I got to work with some amazing musicians and dream big.  Two years later, I'm still as proud of it as the day it was released.

You can check out the back story of the project HERE. More to the point, you can download the album below.  As it was then, the album is entirely free, since the sabbatical grant paid for all recording/mixing/mastering costs.  Listen, download, share, repeat.  Thanks for helping me "let go" all over again!