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.

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.

"So I'm rooting for Michigan State now."

These are not the words I expected to hear from my wife of fifteen years - she who bleeds Carolina Blue as much as anyone who subjected themselves to seven years of indoctrination in Chapel Hill for undergraduate and law school (and yes, this Demon Deacon married her anyway.  True love).  She doesn't have any family with Spartan ties.  I'm not even sure she's been to Michigan.  True, her Tarheels lost a heartbreaker the night before, ending their run in the NCAA Tournament, so there's a vacuum to fill.  But pledging allegiance to a school she knows little about? My curiosity was piqued.

When she told me it was because of "that Adreian guy," I wasn't surprised.  This is the same woman who cheered loud and proud on SuperBowl night for the Seahawks because she saw the Derrick Coleman commercial and how he overcame his deafness to rise to the height in his profession.  My wife is always a sucker for a sweet human interest story.  And really, aren't we all?

I saw something pop up in my Facebook feed over the weekend about Adreian and Lacey, so I was well aware of the story: an adorable little girl who is battling a horrific form of nerve cancer, the odds stacked against her; and the mammoth collegiate basketball star who met her on a team hospital tour.  I go to hospitals for a living and always to see a specific person, so I have little idea what it would be like to go because it's a team activity, community service, and then to happen to meet someone you instantly connect with.  That was two years ago, and Adreian and his "little sister" have been inseparable.  She's been to MSU basketball games; he's attended her fundraising events.  She helped him cut down the nets when the Spartans won the Big Ten Tournament. And she accompanied him when he was honored on Senior Night:

High-profile sports often gets a bad rap, with "me-first" attitudes and the never-ending pursuit of the next million.  As a unabashed sports fan, this is a refreshing detour from that all-too frequent storyline.

But there's more going on here.  The story of Adreian and Lacey hasn't been retweeted/shared/liked millions of times because it's a sports story.  It's a human relationship story, and you and I were made to be in relationship with each other.  We were designed for connection on an emotional, mental, physical, spiritual level.

Not too long ago I was flipping channels and stumbled on the movie Castaway; Tom Hanks playing the stranded pilot lost on an island by himself for two years.  It was around the time Wilson entered the picture.  You remember - the wayward volleyball which made the journey through someone's luggage.  He made a face on it using his own blood - the very source of his life, the deepest connection.  He would talk to it, laugh with it, argue with it.  One of the sadder moments in the movie was when Wilson got swept away in the surf as Hanks rafts away from the island in hopes of being rescued.

Connection.  Our life literally depends on it.

I had this high school English teacher my junior year I don't remember much about, save one thing.  We were in class one day, discussing a book we were reading – typical 11th grade material; I think it was Tennessee Williams’ The Glass Menagerie.  We were talking about the interplay between the characters, the dynamics of their relationships.  And that’s when Mrs. Norton offered up an absolute gem: "Every person that you come into contact with in your life," she said, "no matter how long or how short you know them, every person becomes a part of who you are."

Over twenty-five years later and I've never forgotten that.  The trick, though, is recognizing that reality in our everyday life and acting on it.  And that's the real beauty of Adreian's and Lacey's story.  When it would've been easy, even expected, to remain in their respective roles and view the other in theirs - a basketball player touring a hospital, a young child getting cancer treatment - they allowed themselves to heed the wisdom of my English teacher and allow a connection to take root and grow.  They allowed themselves to impact another life.  And just as importantly (and often the more difficult thing), they allowed their life to be impacted by another.

I can't help but wonder what it would be like if we all made a habit of doing this.  Of assuming that, at any given moment, we are right where we're supposed to be, right with who we're supposed to be with.  And when it'd be so easy for us to keep our distance and for them to keep theirs, what would happen if we reached out through a kind word or smile, just to see where it took us?  Just to see what connection might occur?  That kind of stuff requires a certain level of risk; a certain vulnerability we typically shy away from.  But life itself is risky business, no?

I'll be rooting for Lacey in the rough road she has ahead of her, keeping up with her journey on Twitter.  I don't know that I'll be able to fully side with Michigan State in their Sweet 16 game later this week against Virginia later - we ACC people tend to flock together come March Madness.  But I won't be totally bummed if Adreian's team wins. Besides, if  you ask me, the young man has won already.  In a big way.

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.