New routines that really aren't all that new.  We just haven't engaged them in a while, so it's like trying to get your running legs back in shape after a while off.   It feels familiar, but it still takes some effort.

Lunch sandwiches made - at 7am.  Breakfast to eat - on the go.  Coffee brewed - at a time of the morning no brewing had taken place for a while.

Showers.  School clothes.  Cramming notebooks and papers in bookbags.  Lunchboxes on the kitchen counter, ready to go, but so easy to leave behind.  It's already happened, and this is just the first week.  We're out of practice.

Some new routines that really are new.  The two boys going two different places.  One to elementary school and the other to middle school.  And here in Charlotte, different schools start at different times, to maximize bus usage.

So the new routine I call "divide and conquer:" my wife takes our younger son to elementary school, leaving no later than 8 in the morning, coffee in hand.  She drops him off and then heads on to her new job working at the church preschool three days a week.  Half an hour later, Elder and I depart, and on my way to work I drop him off at middle school.

Middle school.  I have a hard time believing he's in middle school.  And yes, I know I'll have a hard time believing when he's in high school, and when he graduates, and when we drop him off at college, and when he graduates from college, and when he gets married. I get that.   Life is a succession of benchmarks anticipated and then experienced, but I'm not ready to think about those still to come.  I'm thinking about this one this week, because that's where I am. And the thought of having a son in middle school feels weird, just weird.

I drop him off and there's a crowd of students huddled outside - they haven't yet opened the doors.  These kids look huge to me; the few seconds I see them as the car door swings open and my son quickly exits (Don't say goodbye to me here, say it earlier, he has told me. I oblige).  They're huge, but the truth is that my son is no pushover, either.  Summer has seen him crack five feet, which means it's now down to months before he's looking me eye-to-eye.  True, with me this is no great accomplishment. I know and accept this.  Which is why I encourage my son to always set his sights higher, on this and on other matters.

Middle school.  Man.  I still get hung up on that one.

But I'm mostly grateful.  Grateful that a new year is upon us, because as much as I love the easy flow of summer, there's a reason God made watches and alarm clocks and calendars.  We are creatures of routine; and new or old it's nice to get back into them.  

And as we continue in this journey of our first year since the move, I'm very grateful that my boys are getting to start school along with everyone else this time around.  Not like last year, when the week before Thanksgiving they were unceremoniously dropped into a random class like a paratrooper dropped from a flyover into a strange and foreign land.  This time, thank God, they were able to experience walking through those school doors, knowing that moment was just as new for everyone else as it was for them.  

It's new, and yet it's still the same.  And it's only the first week.  And I'm so very grateful.

So the family and two of our four dogs piled into the minivan earlier this week and headed a few hours up north and to the left, to a mountain cabin my parents built in 1980.  When folks ask me where it is I tell them, somewhat accurately, that's it's in between Boone and North Wilkesboro.  But honestly, it's like telling someone that Kansas City is in between Los Angeles and New York.  Truly, this place is in the middle of nowhere, NC.  Winding mountain roads off a dirt road off a dirt road off a dirt road. No wifi or cell signal, and the nearest grocery store is 20 minutes away. It's glorious.

Day 2 found us taking a trip down memory lane.  My memory, that is.  As a tweener my younger brother and I would take these long hikes straight down from our mountain house, a pretty steep drop through leaves and trees and mountain laurel, eventually reaching a bubbling creek below.  We'd hang a left and follow the creek around a bend to these huge rocks.  I mean, automobile-sized huge.  Tens of thousands of years of never-ending water flow had eaten through the sod and carved winding flumes in the rock, and now we were the beneficiaries. We'd hop from one to the other, trying to be prudent but taking risks we probably should have avoided.  We'd hunt down cascading waterfalls and throw small sticks above them to watch them work their way down.  And if we found an open pool, chances were pretty good there were round flat rocks nearby - "pancakes," we called 'em.  Perfect for skipping rocks, a skill our father had taught us long before.

And now, some thirty years later, it's my memory being re-experienced through my two boys, my wife, and the two dogs, who had also made the trek.  True, I was now the parent, so it was a slightly different stance I had to take: don't make that jump, look out for snakes, try to avoid throwing rocks when someone is right in front of you. Silly parent stuff like that.  Still, it was pretty awesome when my own flesh and blood managed to skip a rock 15 times after a textbook toss, or make that hop from one rock to the other with not only ease but the same eager anticipation I had years before.  Coming alive in this little nirvana that so few people on this planet had ever seen, because it's a mile hike off a winding mountain road off a dirt road off a dirt road off a dirt road.

We had been then for a while and I mention to my wife that perhaps it was time for us to head back to the cabin. Why, she asks incredulously, they're actually getting along and not beating each other up.  A wise observation from my betrothed.  We stick around.

This is why we have vacations, people.  So we can go to places out in the middle of nowhere, which is actually somewhere, always with the people we love doing the kinds of things we should always make time to do.

If parenting has taught me anything, it is this: it is as much "feel" as it is science; more art form than calculus.  With all apologies to Dr. Spock and every supposed parenting expert out there, sometimes you just go with your gut and figure it out as you go along - no matter how uncomfortable it makes you.

Discomfort is exactly what I felt when my wife and I sat our boys around the kitchen table last September and shared  the news: we were moving to Charlotte. And it wasn't about whether we felt it was the right decision for our family - it was how they would feel about it.  They who had very little say in the decision; they who would leave the only home, school, church, and town they'd ever known.  Would they be good with this?  I learned something very quickly in that moment around the kitchen table, something I've been reminded of countless times since: 99% of my own adjustment to this change would be how well they would adjust.

It's a bit of a hopeless feeling you have as a parent because, while there are many aspects of the transition you can manage, there's a whole host of things outside your realm of control.  Oh sure, you can make good on promises for Facebook accounts and Carowinds family passes (which, for the record, we have).  But you can't control how well some say goodbye to your kids and how well others say hello.  Add to that the total lack of any shared experience.  I never moved as a kid; my parents still live the same house where I grew up.  So many things in life I can speak from the perspective of the wise old sage  whose been there before (whether that wisdom is received is a different story entirely).  But in this instance, my boys would have to face something I never had to, and there was precious little I could offer from my own experience to prepare them for it.  We would learn together.  We would create art rather than study science.

While the adjustment hasn't always been smooth and certainly had its bumps in the road, the good news is that the journey has moved in a consistently forward direction; a constant and steady clip at or slightly below the speed limit.  This, I was told, was the way it had to be. It takes a year, those who led families through similar transitions said.  You'll go through the full cycle, all the holidays, all the experiences in twelve months.  Then it's familiar, and you've been there before, and then it'll start feeling like home.

Time, I learned, would be our greatest ally in this art endeavor. Giving thanks for each step forward, big and small.

Which leads me to yesterday - my oldest son's 5th Grade Graduation,  or "Promotion" as the above program calls it.  Back in late May,  he informed his mother and me that his essay, "My Time at Olde Providence," had been selected as one of five to be shared during graduation/promotion.  He'd read it to us the week before when it was nothing more than a school assignment.  It was a well-written snapshot of the past six months  But more than that, the opening paragraph was an honest recounting of that September kitchen table conversation (turns out it was just as uncomfortable for him as it was for us), and the hopeful anxiety of walking into his new class for the very first time, and the mosaic of people here who, in his own words, have been "great teachers and the best friends one could possibly imagine."

Listening and watching my 11-year old stand before his peers and hundreds of family, reading this incredibly poignant, astute, and heart-felt journey of the past half-year, was one of those bursting-with-pride parent moments that I never understood as a kid no matter how many times my parents tried to explain it to me.  More than parental pride, though, it assured me that another brick had been cemented in the wall separating our present reality from my greatest fear: that the adjustment would be a long time coming.  And the reason, I am convinced, is because he has claimed the journey.  He has made it his own.  It's no longer him reacting to a decision his parents made nearly a year ago.  Now, it is him claiming this change as his new norm - feeling his way as he goes, creating his own new art form.

Which brings me back to this whole parenting thing.  What is often more important than worrying about whether a parental decision is "right" or "wrong" is simply covenanting to stick together and love each other no matter what life brings your way, whether you're initiating change or responding to it.  The Myers-Briggs "J" in me wishes there was a way to graph this out as some mathematical certainty that could be extrapolated and applied to the rest of life.  The person of faith and mystery in me, though, is more than happy to simply feel the way forward, knowing that anything good in life is almost always the result of some combination of time, patience, and tons of grace for the journey.  A blank canvas, ready for the latest artistic rendering to grace its surface.

NBA Basketball is a big hit around the house these days - even my wife is paying attention.  This is what happens when you have kids who really gets into something: the parents, sometimes willingly, other times by default, do the same.  Or at least they're aware of the surroundings.  

In a four-paragraph autobiography he wrote for this 3rd grade class, my 9-year old revealed that he wants to be an NBA player when he grows up; playing for the Oklahoma City Thunder, the Hornets or the Heat.  While I'll admit that the hometown Hornets coming in second was a bit of a head-scratcher, I understand his passion for the Thunder: it revolves around their star player, Kevin Durant.  

This past week, Durant received the NBA Most Valuable Player Award.  And as nice as it was to see it go to someone not named LeBron, it was also nice to see it go to an inherently good guy.  His 20+-minute acceptance speech was very little about himself and more about all the people surrounding him who helped him get where he is today. He thanked each of his teammates by name and said a little something about them that was more than a simple recognition - it showed the depth of his relationship with them and his heartfelt appreciation (and if you have time you really should watch it HERE).

All of this, though, was more than topped by the recipient of his final thanks: his mother. We're used to seeing athletes offer up the obligatory, "Hi Mom!" as they score the winning touchdown or hit the final shot, but this was something else entirely.  It was from the depths of his heart; it was raw and unfiltered. It was emotional for him and his mother, and it was emotional for everyone watching.  If you missed it, you can watch it below (or, if you don't see it, click HERE).

I pride myself on being able to express through the written or spoken word what is on my heart, but I also recognize when someone else has done it better.  So on this Mother's Day weekend, and to both the Mom who raised me and to the mother of my two boys:

What he said.

The Charlotte area got around 10 inches of the white stuff this past week.  Not nearly as much as the 16 that graced our former home in Mayberry, but hey, we're not complaining.  At one point when the snow was really coming down, my younger son and I were in the front yard, scouting out a possible sledding track.  Most of our neighborhood is pretty flat, but our yard has a good hill to it.  I'm looking at the front yard, but he has his sights set on something else.  He points to the front door stairs, at that time fully covered in the white stuff.  Why not there, Dad?  And so it would be.  Credit 9-year old ingenuity.

Within a few hours, the Lindsley Luge was up and running.  Not surprisingly, it became a hot spot for other neighborhood kids.  My Dad, who is in Sochi working on his tenth Olympics, recognized the irony: snow in southern North Carolina; 60 degrees at the Winter Olympics.  We'll take it.  I seriously doubt the Queen City will see a snowfall like this again anytime soon, but we've got memories - and a few video clips - to last us for a while (note: if no clips show up in the email, click on the title link above).

According to the bastion of all knowledge known as Google search, the last episode of "The Andy Griffith Show" aired on April 1, 1968 and was titled "Mayberry R.F.D."  Nothing much happened; the episode essentially was a transition piece to the spin-off series by the same name.  By this time a number of things had changed in the show: black-and-white to color, less  good ol' moral lessons and more slapstick country bumpkin-comedy. It was the 249th episode and marked the conclusion of eight storied seasons. Most notable, perhaps, was that Sheriff Andy Taylor was still in Mayberry as the last episode faded to black.  Fitting.  It wasn't until the spin-off that he moved with his new bride to the big city of Raleigh.  And while a lot had changed when he left, a whole lot was still the same.

This is good to know as I, too, prepare to leave Mayberry.

It's good to know, as my family and I move this week to Charlotte where I'll be the new senior pastor at Trinity Presbyterian Church, that a lot of what we're leaving behind won't change: namely, the ethos of a small town in northwest North Carolina that has taken all the good from the iconic television show it helped to create and incorporated it into its very fabric.  Store names lifted from the show: Barney's Cafe.  Opie's Candy Store. Snappy's Lunch (this one was actually present when young Andy Griffith wandered the streets of his hometown).  The beautiful vista of a community nestled in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, which can be seen in the distance at various points driving around town.  Most of all, the people.  Members of First Presbyterian Church who will always feel like the dear family they are.  Storeowners down Main Street known on a first-name basis - Sandy at the coffee house, Mark at the computer store, Jim at the used book store, Timmesa at the sewing machine shop, Burke and Carolyn at the emporium, John and Gene at the men's clothing store, David and Lora at the soda fountain.  Community leaders who have done a wonderful job of maintaining the "Mayberry charm" while addressing real economic challenges of a small town and living into the 21st century (can I get a shout-out for curbside recycling!)  Of all that makes leaving Mayberry hard, it's leaving the people that is most difficult.  Which I guess is the way it should be, and even greater proof that we really have been in Mayberry all these ten years.

What I wasn't quite prepared for was how our leaving would touch the community-at-large.  Of course there are all the church folks we've laughed and cried with; the "happy for you, sad for us" response that lets us know we'll be genuinely be missed; the new Lindsley mailbox they gave us full of cards and letters and pictures expressing deep love and affection that will find a prominent place in our new home and be cherished for a long time. But beyond the church: people throughout the community, some we don't even know, coming up to us time and time again with their well-wishes.  Almost like there was an article in the local newspaper we didn't see.

Last Friday I had lunch with both boys at the school they will leave this week, and as my oldest returned to his classroom I felt a tug on my sleeve.  It was this fifth-grade girl I've known since she was in kindergarten, even though I can never remember her name.  For six years she has always waved at me with her bright smile and blue eyes and freckles every time she's seen me in school. On this day, there were words with her smile.  I heard you're moving, she said.  I told her we were, next week.  Still smiling she said, Well, I'll miss you.  But I wish you all the best.  I hope you do good things!  And then she hugged me and turned around and followed her classmates to her room.

It's stuff like this that I hope will never change.  When we come back to visit, I want to find that kid and have her wave at me like she always has.  I want Snappy Lunch to still be here; even if I don't actually eat their food.  I want to grab an Oreo malt from the soda fountain and a glass of Restless Soul from the winery (maybe not back-to-back).  I want to wander the streets I used to walk on a daily basis and greet people whether I know them or not; and if a short conversation about the weather ensues, so be it.  And I want to see those mountains in the distance, because even as we move to a place where tall human-made constructions of steel and glass and concrete adorn the skyline, and as awesome as I think that is, in the end I still prefer God's handiwork.  

And so this week a big truck will pull up in front of our house in Mayberry and load all our stuff in it, and the next day deposit it (hopefully unbroken) in a new house a few hours from here.  I guess you could think of it as a spin-off of an original series.   Like ol' Andy Taylor taking his bride to the big city, the Lindsleys are heading to Charlotte, and we'll create the storyline that the sitcom writers neglected to tell.  We'll make a home out of that house; the boys will make new friends at a new school and my wife will find some arena to engage her passion for "the least of these," be they children or animals.  We'll love our new church family in the same way we loved this one here and count ourselves blessed because of it.

But make no mistake - part of us will always be here.  With the good friends we care deeply for and with the places in and around this town that in their own way have become sacred space.  There's a reason CBS waited until the spin-off to ship Andy out of Mayberry - it was so that, in a way, he'd never leave.  He would always be in the place that defined him, doing his Sheriff Taylor thing, just as we remember him doing.  And there's a part of me that's very attracted to that.  I like a place where memory lives strong - not nostalgically holding us back from moving forward, but constantly reminding us of our roots and the people and places who've made us who we are so we can move boldly into the future.  Like a compass, forever keeping us on course as we go here and there and maneuver through the wild ride that is life.

I'm grateful for all of that.  I'm grateful that leaving Mayberry doesn't have to involve a total departure.  We're going to be writing a pretty awesome spin-off, but the original will always be running in the background. In black and white, of course.

For once, I'm at a loss for words.

Well, not totally.  I am a preacher after all.  And to be fair to myself, it's probably still a little early to try and process all that could and should be said.  When you love people the way I've loved the church I've served for the past ten-plus years and they love you right back, it takes a while to verbalize what all that means.  So I'll cut myself some slack.

In the meantime, I'll say what I can say through pictures, sounds, video.  First, the picture.  It's the stole the church presented me with in worship yesterday - made by a good friend, nonetheless.  Music, Lighthouse, Creation Care, The Cross, Handprints, The Rock (Mount Airy granite, of course).  And a green stole, which means I can wear it the most Sundays of the year and be liturgically correct (it's a Presbyterian thing). The best part was that they gave it to me first thing yesterday morning, so I got to wear it throughout worship.  The even better best part was that, as part of my sermon (which you can read and listen to HERE), I gave everyone their own stole.  We didn't even plan that.  Awesome.

Next, sound: So I wanted to write the youth group a song, because they're an amazing group of young people who totally have my heart.  But - I would not write a sappy song.  Which was meant with tremendous sighs of relief when I told them this at their youth group meeting a week ago. Everyone was a bit emotional, you see.  We needed levity. So it was a good thing that I went for the slightly off-kilter theme song that, while certainly isn't my best lyrical work, is still one of my favorites, primarily because of who it's written for.  You can listen to the song (and even download the mp3 if you want to):

(by the way, I promise I don't always look like that when I'm singing. At least I don't think I do).

And finally, video.  So the church had a wonderful reception for us after worship yesterday.  Lots of hugs, kind words, more than a few tears, good food and delicious cake.  And the debut of the Beacon theme song, of course. They also made a point of including my wife and sons in the goodbyes, which I was most grateful for, because it's not just me that's leaving.  The church gave us a wonderful Lindsleys mailbox full of sweet cards and notes we'll treasure for a long time.  The youth gave our boys large laminated lighthouses (hence their name the Beacons) with signatures and sweet notes to put on the walls of their new bedroom in Charlotte.  And for my lovely wife, they sang a song that really says it all:

I trust you now know why these kids have my heart.

By the way, see that cool handprint guitar?  We made that at youth group last week, mimicking the handprints of all the youth over the years that adorn the inside of the Lighthouse walls.  We made two guitars, actually - one to stay in that Lighthouse and one to travel with us to Charlotte.  I'm pretty sure I killed a few brain cells spraying eight coats of Polycrylic on these things all last week, but it was totally worth it.

Like the song says, "Just know you're not alone / I'm gonna make this place your home."  PhilipDave PhillipsMatthews pretty much nailed it: home is more about people than a place.  In a little less than a month we'll be making a new home in the Queen City, but a part of us will always remain in Mayberry (hopefully not our actual house, which happens to be for sale if you're interested).  In a world where so much is fleeting and fake, this has been real, my friends.  And real stuff never really goes away.  And that is a very very good thing.