Marshall Ramsey

First Quarter:

The father led his son by the hand. When they emerged from the dark tunnel into the vast football stadium, the little boy stopped in awe. A sea of humanity, dressed in bright colors roared in unison as the team ran out of the end-zone tunnel . The father helped the son put his hand over his heart during the National Anthem. The son saw his father tear up as the jet roared over the stadium.  The band played and then the whistle blew. The players ran out onto the field. It was a sensory thanksgiving shared by 100,000 people. But as far as the little boy was concerned, they were alone.

Second Quarter:

The boy was in college now. His dad came up for the big game and the two of them sat together in the family’s seats.  The two men had little in common but spoke the same language: College football.  The son bought his dad a hot dog and a Coke.  The dad looked at his meal and laughed.  “I’m paying thousands in tuition; it’s the least you can do is buy me lunch.”  The crowd roared as their team score another touchdown.  As far as the dad was concerned, they were the only two people in the whole stadium.

Third Quarter:

The son led his son in by the hand.  Halftime had just ended and they had to make another bathroom break. The grandson was more interested in the concession stand than the game, but the grandfather smiled. He knew that would change.  The three men sat together in the family’s seats and cheered as their team scored another touchdown.  The clock was ticking down.  Faster, it seemed, to the son and the father. The grandson just sat and ate some more cotton candy. To him, they were the only three people in the in the stadium.

Fourth Quarter.

The grandson was now in college. He was the third generation to go there and the three men sat together in special handicap seats. The grandfather was now in a wheelchair and the dad made sure he could see the game well enough. Bright colors filled the stadium and cheers drowned out every other possible noise.  The band played the fight song and the crowd sang to the top of its collective lungs.  The clock counted down to zero. As the son and grandson helped push the grandfather’s wheelchair toward the exit, the grandfather looked at the two men he loved and said, “It has been an amazing game.  Let’s pray for overtime.”

He flew through the air over 100 feet and landed in a nurse’s yard. He saves lives. Sorry Clark Kent, Dewayne Morgan is Superman.

His story begins like this: Morgan was riding his motorcycle around 3 p.m near Booneville, Miss. on that fateful afternoon.  He looked ahead and saw a car swerve into his lane. He had a moment to react. He almost made it.

But he didn’t.

His motorcycle impacted against the drunk driver’s front fender at 50 mph in a horrible crash.  His arm went through the motorcycle’s windshield, shattering both. He then flew through the air, landing in a broken mass in a yard.  Over 200 bones were broken in his upper body. His leg was nearly severed. And so was his arm. He nearly bled to death on the side of the road. Fate stepped in and he just happened to land in a nurse’s yard.  And luckily, the helicopter ambulance was only five minutes away.

Months of rehab and over million dollars in hospital bills later (neither Morgan or the drunk driver had insurance), Morgan beat the odds. (His doctors gave him a 2% chance of survival.) The hospital settled on his bills and his church family helped him pay them off.  He is now piecing his life back together.

A woman made a choice. She chose to drink and get behind the wheel of her car.  That choice destroyed her life (she is in prison) and her family’s. It forever altered Morgan’s and his family’s, too. He lost his leg.  He faced a crushing debt. He went through painful rehab. But his spirit remains intact.

Morgan made a choice as well. He isn’t allowing the drunk driver’s bad choice to ruin him. He is now making sweet lemonade out of a pretty sour lemon by touring the state as part of  the Department of Public Safety’s Drive Sober or Get Pulled Over campaign. Like he said, “If one person decides not to drink and drive after hearing my story, this is all worth it.”

Dewayne Morgan is a hero. He is a man of steel. He truly is Superman.

She sailed on the sea of anger for over a year. Churning waves tossed her vessel around, tearing at its hull and mast.  The very sails that would have saved her were tattered.  Those she loved were tossed around: The smell of vomit and fear permeated the cabin.  There was no course charted — she just allowed her direction to be dictated by the churning sea.  The whitecaps boiled and whirlpools threatened. Her craft and her compass spun in circles.

She decisively and firmly grasped the ship’s wheel, cutting into the wind and sailing for the calmer seas of forgiveness.  She then charted a new course —  one based on discipline and love.  She scrubbed the cabin, cleaning up the messes she had created.  The ship rocked gently. The angry dark seas turned into rolling blue waves.

She changed course and became the captain of her own destiny.  And her journey was only just now beginning. Hurricane Anger had dissipated into a calm sea.

Dreams that occur when your eyes are open are sometimes the hardest to grasp.

He kicked the dry Delta dirt with his boot. The resulting cloud of dust floated across the field of soybeans.  A rag from his pocket wiped the sweat off his brow and from his burning eyes. August’s afternoon sun was brutal and unforgiving.  It was just him, his dog and his talent in the middle of  1,000 acres of nothing — a strange place to search for a dream.  But that’s what he was doing. He was going to be a singer.  And sometimes, the pursuit of dreams takes you on the most unusual route.

He had prayed every night for his dream to come true.  He quickly learned that God didn’t answers prayers like a genie.  No, instead God put him places for him to achieve what he prayed for.  The smoke-filled lounge.  The county fair.  His church. The political picnic.  At times he questioned it all.  Why? Why can’t it be easier?

For 10 years he struggled to be an overnight success.

There were setbacks along the way. Lots of them. As he looked across the Delta, he thought of the people who didn’t believe in him.  They were like insects that ate the grain: The people who discouraged his talent.  The  bosses who didn’t understand his abilities. The well-meaning family members who urged him to settle down. The time he was laid off and had to take three jobs to make ends meet.  The anger caused acid to bubble up from his stomach and damage his throat. He remembered when it all made sense to him: When his sister gave him the puzzle that could only be solved by taking two steps back for every three moves forward. That was a hard lesson for him to learn: The road to success wasn’t a straight line.

Right now, that road was a Delta dirt road.

He climbed into his truck next to his dog and turned on the radio.  A familiar song came on — it was one of his.  He pulled over, put his head down and prayed a quick prayer of thanks.  The local radio station had given him some airplay. You never knew who might be listening. People always asked him who is best friend was. He quipped, “Chance.”

He looked out at the field and realized his talent like the rich Delta soil. If no seeds were planted, nothing would grow.  But each performance was a seed. And the more he planted, the bigger crop he would have.  His insistence on excellence; his discipline was him hoeing the weeds out.  Him taking care of himself physically provided the fertilizer his crop would need.  Like a farmer, he knew he could not scatter a few seeds and be an overnight success.  Farmers didn’t plant seeds and reap a harvest the very next day.  His crop would come in. The good Lord would determine the length of the growing season.

He got out of his truck and scooped some rich, black Delta soil into a Mason Jar.

He had to keep planting.  The law of probabilities only works if you’re in the game.  So plant he did. He kept singing at honky-tonks. He sang on a statewide radio station.  A local gig in the state capitol led to another bigger gig. He hit the pillow every night exhausted.

One night he was singing in the Capitol City and a man in the back of the bar made a call. On the other end, a man in Nashville  listened to the sweet song coming through his phone.

A prayer was answered.

The man in Nashville offered him a record deal.  Several concerts led to a TV appearance.  The TV appearance led to more record sales and radio airplay. Fans loved his down-home, no-nonsense style.  He was called talented and refreshingly honest.  People admired his work-ethic and discipline — the very discipline that allowed him to tend to his most important crop of all: His dream of being a singer. People asked him his secret of success. He replied honestly, “I’m a farmer.”

A year later, he stood on the stage of the Grand Ol’ Opry.  He sang sweet songs that made momma’s cry.  As he strummed the last chord on his current #1 hit, the camera panned out.There, by his foot, was a Mason Jar full of dark Delta soil.

His crop had come in. And it was a bountiful harvest.