Yesterday I spoke to the Starkville-MSU chapter of PRAM (Public Relations Association of Mississippi) at Harveys Restaurant. I changed up my usual program to focus more on creativity and the variety of work that I do. I also spoke about some of the challenges my careers has faced — not because I particularly like strolling down that memory lane but because they are caught up in a similar whirlwind of change. The Internet and Social Media both have disrupted and changed how we get our information. Content creators like myself have to adapt nearly daily. We spoke about disruption and how to face it. How to reframe it as an opportunity. After everyone had left, I had a few moments to wolf down my untouched lunch. (It’s hard to eat and speak at the same time) That’s when I met really a talented and upbeat server who was cleaning up the room. I interrupted her and asked a few questions about herself. She told me she’s a student at Mississippi State who’s studying aeronautical engineering. OK, I was impressed with that. But I was also impressed with her ability to connect with people and her friendliness. Her attitude and hustle also stood out. She went on to tell me about how working at the restaurant enabled her to meet someone who helped her get a co-op job at a local aeronautical firm. We talked abut how college really is about learning how to make connections. That’s when she completely credited her job at the restaurant for helping her take her next step in her career. I said that I truly expected to see her being named CEO in 20 years. Here’s the thing — she has a huge dream (that involves Calculus!) On paper, being a server really doesn’t fit in to that it. But because she approaches her job with a winning attitude, that server job has propelled her dream forward. To her, being a server is more than a paycheck. It’s an opportunity. That’s how you do it. The salad was food for my stomach. Meeting her was food for thought. If we’re in this time of change, how can we take our current situations and leverage it to make our dreams come true? As I see my reflection, I wonder what can I do to have a better attitude? As I left, I wished her luck. But honestly, I’m not sure she needs luck. She seems to have the situation well at hand.
It was the Summer of 1977. A new movie called Star Wars had come out and its popularity was blasting off into space. A couple miles from my house was a small movie theater called Canton Corners Theater. I had begged my mom to let me go see it, so there I was, on the back row anxiously awaiting what I heard was amazing. The lights dimmed and the words “A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away” silently appeared on the screen. And then BAM! John Williams’ iconic score blasted through the Dolby speakers. Then blockade runner appeared and the star destroyer lumbered across the screen.
Nine-year-old me was hooked.
Star Wars has been my time machine ever since. Whenever I watch that movie, I’m nine again. I wanted to be Luke Skywalker when I grew up — I dreamed there was something more exciting on my horizon than just being a middle-class kid in Marietta, Georgia. I wanted to explore the galaxy. Han, Leia, C-3PO, Luke, Darth Vader, Grand Moff Tarkin, Wedge, Biggs and Chewie were people (and droids and Wookiees) I came to know and love.
Peter Mayhew, the actor who brought Chewbacca to life has died at the age of 74. (By the way, Chewbacca got screwed at the end of the movie when he didn’t get a medal! But I digress). Mayhew played Chewie in the original trilogy, in Episode 3 and in the cockpit scenes of The Force Awakens. He had been in a wheelchair but worked hard to be able to stand to play the galaxy’s favorite Wookiee one more time. Just following Mayhew’s Twitter showed me that he LOVED being Chewie and really loved the fans who loved him. (Chewbacca lives on with Joonas Suotamo playing him).
But Mayhew’s death makes me sad. Partly because he was a good guy with a big heart. And partly because I realize that the time machine is starting to fade away.
Being nine truly is a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.
To Peter Mayhew and all who loved him — May the Force Be With You. And I hope Chewie finally got that medal he so richly deserved.
I had a malignant melanoma and am extremely fortunate it was cut out and removed. That happened on April 19, 2001 and my doctor, Dr. Kenny Barraza did a wonderful job with the wound. It has healed magnificently.
Yes, I have a scar on my back — it pretty sizable one, too, but it isn’t that noticeable. Nor are the scars from the nearly 75 moles I’ve had removed as well. Dr. Barraza does wonderful work. The external scars have faded. The internal ones? Well, they have taken longer to heal. Having cancer kicked off a round of anxiety in me that affected me for years. It, too, has faded but I still battle fear from time to time — for that and other reasons. Yet I am not a victim. Far from it. I am lucky and blessed.
But I’ll be honest — it took a while for me to develop that attitude.
Today? I am grateful. Very grateful. For instance, I am grateful that treating it was as simple as removing a chunk of my back. I am grateful that it had not spread and I did not require further treatment. I am grateful that Amy was able to keep things together while I fell apart. I am grateful that it provided opportunities to help others become aware of the disease and get screened and treated. I am grateful to still be alive. Melanoma is like the crack on your windshield — catch it early and you’re good. If it is allowed to spread, you lose more than your windshield.
Eighteen years ago, I said if I could live 10 years, there’d be a cure. I was wrong. There’s no cure — but there are several treatments that show promise. Advances in immunotherapy will be the magic bullet (in my non-doctor) opinion but for right now, the best thing you can do is get screened and if one is caught, get it cut out early. If you have a funny looking mole that is black, two-toned, irregular in shape, large, bleeding or itching — get it checked.
Early detection is the key.
There are long chunks of days when I don’t even think about the scar on my back and what it means. There are days when I am not grateful and I don’t see a sunrise. But most days I do realize how lucky I am. We all die of something. I am just glad that I have been given 18 more years of life. I have watched my boys grow up and I now know they’d remember me if my cancer came back and killed me. I also have been able to get life insurance to protect them and Amy.
My scar burned this morning. It hasn’t in a while so it surprised me. I guess the good Lord was just reminding me that everyday is a blessing.
It’s a beautiful day after a very soggy day around Mississippi. The Avengers: Endgame is the big thing this weekend. I will be (as mentioned in another post) working on a term paper most of the weekend — so the Avengers is a carrot for me to get my work done. On Sunday, I am the speaker at an Eagle Scout ceremony and on Saturday, I’m going to break away from the computer to see my son run in the North State track meet.
Otherwise my butt will be in a seat and I will be typing.
Right now, I’m still digging up research for my paper and am preparing notes for a board meeting I have in a week. I will probably do a cartoon later this afternoon, but today is more screen time than creative time. My paper is on the current state of the newspaper industry, some possible ways to help it survive and ways to monetize the content digitally. Obviously, that’s a big part of my new job but it is also something I need to think about on a personal level too. For many years, I sat with my nose pointed at a drawing board and the world changed around me. Add to that some personal stuff and I have lagged behind where I need to be as an artist and an entrepreneur. There also is a personal responsibility component to all of this, too. Back in the day, I just worried about a cartoon a day. Now I have several universes orbiting the center of my personal brand. Long story short, I need to be better organized.
Oh yeah, and I need to be a decent father to three of the most amazing boys on the planet.
It’s all about focus, though: Like weeding out parts of my life that don’t matter and people who don’t support my mission. I can’t go down rabbit holes, etc. because I just don’t have the time. I can’t have people in my inner circle who don’t believe.
I vow to start each day with gratefulness for another opportunity, to use my talent in ways that bring joy and thought to the daily conversation and to love others as I would myself (unless you’re in a political cartoon and then I will turn on the snark). My platforms? Radio, TV, cartoons, children’ books, social media and speaking.
That’s where I’m headed.
A term paper is a pretty big undertaking but has been a great activity for me. I am completely stressed out by it but am doing this as I would if I had to eat an elephant — one bite at a time. But the beauty of it is that it has forced me to think about some things I haven’t.
To quote Shakespeare, “I have to get my sh*t together.”
Me and Dr. Julian. She challenged me to “Do Better.”
The University of Tennessee tweeted out a tweet yesterday asking “what professor made a difference in your life?” That was easy — It’s Dr. Faye Julian.
Dr. Julian was my speech teacher my senior year. After the first test, she was handing out graded tests. When she put mine on my desk, it had a big red 95% on it. I was quite happy with that and then I caught her famous intense stare. She looked at me and said, “You can do better.”
I thought, “Who is this person? A 95% is pretty darn good.”
But you know what? I did do better.
I loved Dr. Julian. She believed in my talent before I did and pushed me accordingly. If you have ever heard me speak and liked it, thank her. I spoke at the Howard Baker Center at UT a few years ago and she came to hear me. She came up to me afterwards and said, “You’ve gotten better but here are a few things you need to polish up.” Always the teacher. I saw her a year before she died. I had done a print for the College of Communications & Information featuring a party in Circle Park (near their building). Featured in it were the old Deans. Dr. Julian had been a dean after I left school, so I gave her a low number print. I asked her, “Was I your favorite student?” She said sharply, “No. You were my 2nd favorite student.”
A little hurt, I asked, “Who was?”
She grinned and said, “Peyton Manning.”
I can live with that.
The tweet got me thinking of all the teachers who I’ve had who shaped me, prodded me and believed in me. Miss Floyd (later Mrs. Eubanks) was from Mississippi and was my first grade teacher. She was wonderful. Mrs. Caylor was my third grade teacher and really encouraged my artwork. Mrs. Newman in 5th grade pushed me to be better. Miss Overstreet in high school taught me to think for myself. Miss Patterson picked me to be the cartoonist for the school paper (that worked out well). Mrs. Battle lit my love of history and politics. Coach Clouse taught me that if I work hard enough, I can do anything (chemistry) — I could go on all day.
If you are reading this and are a teacher, know this. Today, you made a difference in one of your student’s life. Hopefully for the best — if you have the passion, you probably did. You may never hear about it in a Facebook post 30 years later. But that kid has been changed and pushed in a better direction.
Dr. Julian died last year, but I still hear her voice frequently. When I am working on something and am not putting out 100%, I hear her say,”You can do better than that.”
About this time last year I ran a marathon with some friends. We had a blast and finished it in 4:45 — which is not a bad time. This morning, I ran (waddled) 30 minutes and cussed every freaking step of the way. A bad knee, a busy new job with travel and lots of Little Debbies (Big Deborah as I call them) packed 25 lbs. on my frame — I got up to 223 lbs. I swore I’d never do that again.
Yet I did.
The last time my scale shot up like this, I got up to 250 lbs. and it was also a year after a marathon. It was 2011, I had been made part-time, had to take a second job at a radio station and was propping myself up with sugary sodas to survive my 14-hour days. I joined Paul Lacoste’s bootcamp in January 2012 and lost 50 lbs in 12 weeks — and have kept it off for nine years. But this time, I saw what was happening and REFUSED to go back there. So I have modified my diet and cut back on carbs (Sorry Little Debbie, you are poison) and have started running again. My injured knee feels remarkably good. I know I need to stretch to keep from injuring it again. I’ll be back in the gym next week and plan on getting back out to Paul Lacoste’s bootcamp as early as this summer. My resting heart rate before the knee injury was 48 — which is amazing. It was 49 this morning. I have hope of getting back into the swing of things. But first, I need to drop 25 lbs. I’m already down five so I am on my way.
You really don’t realize how important exercise is to you until you can’t (and then won’t). Habits (good and bad) form quickly. I just chock this up to a life lesson and some needed rest. I’m a better person mentally and physically when I workout. It’s time to get back after it.
I promise Big Deborah won’t lure me to the dark side again.
The previous few years had been Hell, at least in Jim Abbott’s mind. An already active fight-or-flight mode had been kicked in overdrive by one crisis after another. Family turmoil, his parents’ catastrophic illnesses and then deaths, job stress and exhaustion had taken their toll. He sat in church and was miserable. He had prayed over and over and over again for relief from his pain. Yet God was silent. Abbott just stewed in his misery and depression.
Like a leaf caught in a whirlpool, he couldn’t escape his own dark thoughts.
The service was beautiful as were the flowers on the altar. But Jim Abbott couldn’t see that. He muddled through the hymns, trying not to sing loud enough to be head. Warm rays of light beamed through the church’s ancient glass, yet he felt cold. He listened to the priest’s homily but the words couldn’t penetrate the armor that surrounded his heart. Voices of doubt, inadequacy and anger drowned it out. He prayed to God again, asking for relief — or something. Silence answered him back. His knees hurt as he kneeled.
Soon it was time to go up to the altar for communion. The priest passed out the wafer and then the wine. Jim Abbott took a sip and felt the alcohol’s burn against his lips. He felt the warmth as the wine flowed down this throat. He asked one more time for relief from his pain. And once again, he heard nothing.
Then he got up and headed back toward his seat. Standing right next to the altar was the Verger, in his black robes and funny looking hat. He had a smile on his face that emitted genuine happiness and love. The Verger looked at Jim Abbott in the face and grinned. “Happy Easter!” He stuck out his hand and shook Abbott’s hand with gusto. Abbott felt something crack (not his hand) as he said, “Happy Easter!” back.
Jim Abbott felt the warm sunlight as the choir sang the last song. And when the procession exited the church, he noticed the smile in the Verger’s eyes as he headed out of the church. The man radiated pure joy. And at that moment, Jim Abbott felt happiness for the first time in years.
Today, Jim Abbott still struggles with darkness. But when it starts to spread its dark cloak over him, he thinks about the Verger’s joy — and then the darkness fades. That’s when he realized it: the answer to internal hate and fear is spreading love and joy to others. That Easter, Jim Abbott learned one of life’s most peculiar truths: Sometimes angels wear funny hats.
The Reverend James O’Reilly stared at his blank laptop screen waiting for divine inspiration. Its white glow illuminated the frustrated look on his face. So far, nothing.
“Moses had it easy,” he thought, “he had a burning bush.”
His office was tomb quiet except for the ticking of his grandfather’s old clock. Franklin O’Reilly had served as chaplain on the U.S.S. Benjamin Franklin until a Kamikaze sent him to meet Jesus. Next to the clock was a baseball signed by Hank Aaron, a picture of him and Mother Theresa and a Statue of Liberty thermometer. All these were random things that defined Reverend James O’Reilly.
The baseball? He used to go with his dad to see Hank Aaron play. They had been in Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium when Hammerin’ Hank hit his record-breaking 715th homerun; it was simply the most wonderful day of his life. The next day was the absolute worst. His father dropped dead of a heart attack at the kitchen table during dinner. He struggled with his faith after his father’s death and for a while vowed to become an atheist. How could God take his dad away from him like that when he was just seven years old?!? But that pain had forged his spiritual self over time. It had allowed him to understand life’s fragility and urgency. The photo with Mother Theresa reminded O’Reilly of his daily mission to lift up his community through his works. And the Statue of Liberty was bought by his mother — a complicated woman who suffered from mental illness at the end of her life. She had turned inwards trying to ease the painful voice in her head. O’Reilly, scarred from growing up with her, knew that the only way to quiet that voice was to lift up others. That’s why he became a priest.
Tick tock. Tick Tock. Tick Tock. Still nothing.
Easter was his Super Bowl. It was like New Year’s Day for fitness centers — it’s when you saw people you wouldn’t see for the rest of the year. It was the one day he knew he could reach most of his small congregation. But what could he say? Sure, he’d talk about the glory and love of the risen Christ. But how could he make that relevant for his parishioners lives? He stared at the blank screen. Maybe it was time for him to say an emergency prayer. But he knew God wasn’t a genie who answered prayers like wishes. Every time he had prayed for something, God had given him the opportunity to earn it. He had prayed he’d be a successful and powerful bishop. He wanted to make a difference in people’s lives. He looked out at the window at the fields and realized God had placed him a million miles from that.
How could he make a difference in his parishioners’ lives?
St. Francis of Assisi Episcopal Church is a small white wooden church in the middle of a small town in the middle of a small part of the Mississippi Delta. Like the town around it, it was shriveled up like crops during a drought. St. Frances wasn’t Reverend O’Neil’s first choice of places to be. Or even his 254th. He has lucky to have a job at all. He was on the cusp of taking the reigns of a large cathedral in Atlanta, Georgia when his ambition outran his common sense. Adam and Eve had an apple; Franklin O’Neil had his own forbidden fruit. The bishop, a close personal friend, had salvaged his career by calling the bishop in Mississippi who happened to need a rector for St. Francis. Next thing he knew, he was a modern-day Icarus who crash landed smack in the middle of the Mississippi Delta.
He had been at St. Francis for five years now. He was a broken man serving a broken congregation. But he had developed a genuine love for the place. The first couple of years, he’d spend evening looking out over the fields at the setting sun as he wished to be somewhere else. But God had plans for him there. He was to grow where he was planted and for the time being, he was planted in the rich Delta soil.
He looked at the screen and typed a few words. A few more came and then a few more. Sure, it wasn’t the best sermon but it was the best one he could come up with. He closed his laptop and thought, “Thanks be to God.”
He walked from his office to the parsonage at the back of the property. In between, there were several old graves. The Flood of 1927 had destroyed the church and caused several of the caskets to float away. Life was a struggle in this part of Mississippi. If it wasn’t the floods, it was the poverty or even tornadoes. He smiled and thought, “ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” (His Good Friday sermon had been particularly good he thought.) You didn’t need many reminders of life’s frailty around here.
His parsonage was creaky, leaky and according to his teenage daughter, “freaky.” Since his wife left him (after the Atlanta disaster and the loss of their son), his daughter only came to visit a couple weeks in the summertime. So on nights like this, it was just him and his cat Moses. He had found Moses in a box down by the Sunflower River. Father O’Reily pulled a soft drink out of the fridge and read back over his sermon. Cheating death? Check. God’s Love? Check. Love thy neighbor? Check. Courage to love others as yourself? Check. Loving others as yourself always seemed hard to Father O’Reilly — it’s hard to love others if you didn’t particularly love yourself. That’s what caused the Atlanta meltdown after all. He took a sip of the soda and smiled. Five years ago, this would have had a good dose of Bourbon mixed into it. He looked up at the quote from St. Francis of Assisi he had framed on his wall:
“Start by doing what’s necessary; then do what’s possible; and suddenly you are doing the impossible.”
Easter morning was a glorious morning. The sun rose over the freshly planted fields as fog burned off over the swamps and the creeks. The parishioners, dressed in their Sunday finest, filled the pews. Small children joined their parents and grandparents. Kids came home from Nashville, Atlanta and Dallas. Flowers joined the gold cross on the altar. Alleluia was proclaimed. Then it was time for the homily. It was time to blind the crowd with his brilliance.
“Death lost today. Hate took a backseat. Fear withered. Love won the day.”
Before he could say another word the doors burst open. There, standing in back of the nave was Jimmy Breck. Jimmy had served in Iraq five tours and had come home a troubled and angry man. For five years, he had bounced from job to job as he had struggled with his PTSD. Now, he was angry and waving a .38 pistol at the congregation.
“DON’T MOVE YOU SONS OF A BITCHES. YOU WANT TO SEE JESUS? TODAY WILL BE YOUR CHANCE! I AM TIRED OF BEING IGNORED BY THIS TOWN!”
The Reverend O’Reilly looked at Jimmy and calmly put down his sermon. He took a deep breath (which could be his last) and said calmly, “Good morning Jimmy. Welcome. You are loved by all in this room. Join us.”
Jimmy waved his pistol around the room again and then trained it at O’Reilly. “BULLSH*T DON’T SAY ANOTHER WORD OR YOUR BRAINS WILL BE ALL OVER THE WALL!”
O’Reilly felt something warm move through him as he looked around at the terrified faces of the congregation. Low sobs filled the rooms as people began to cry as quietly as they could. He looked out at Jimmy and thought of his own son who had died in Afghanistan five years ago. Fear should have gripped him, but he felt love for the broken man in front of him who was waving the pistol.
“God loves you Jimmy. I love you.”
Jimmy waved the pistol again and the fired it at the statue of Jesus. Jesus’ head exploded into shards of porcelain.
“Jimmy, please don’t do that again. And please take a seat. You are welcome to take communion with us.” There was a calmness in his voice that was other-worldly. Jimmy felt the power of the Holy Spirit flowing through him as he began to walk out from behind the pulpit.
“DON’T MOVE MOTHERF*CKER!!” Jimmy screamed. “YOU ARE ALL ABOUT TO DIE!”
O’Reilly walked calmly and slowly toward Jimmy. Jimmy shook with disbelief as the priest approached him. There was no sign of fear in this man. Who was he?
“Jimmy, God loves you and so do I.”
Jimmy lifted the pistol and pointed it right at O’Reilly. But the priest still continued toward him. Soon he felt the cold metal of the barrel against his forehead.
“Give me the gun Jimmy. You are welcome to stay for communion. You are part of our family.”
Jimmy’s finger began to pull back on the trigger but something tugged it back. Mystified, he lowered the gun and just stood there. O’Reilly looked at him and said, “Give me the gun Jimmy. I’ll keep it for you until the end of the service.”
Jimmy, feeling a peace he had not felt since before the war, he handed the priest the gun. His anger faded and he stared at the crazy priest and began to sob.
“Who are you?”
“Someone who loves you Jimmy.” And then O’Reilly held the man in his arms. “Everyone in this room loves you.”
Sirens filled the air as the State Patrol burst through the back doors. The troopers had expected to see a blood-filled crime scene but instead saw a broken priest holding a broken man.
“Jimmy Breck, you are under arrest.”
Father O’Reilly looked at the officer and said, “Not yet. I made a promise to this man and I intend to keep it.”
And he grabbed a wafer and poured a cup of wine in the chalice.
“Body of Christ, the bread of heaven/The Blood of Christ, the cup of salvation”
The Reverend James O’Reilly never did get to finish his sermon that Easter. If he had, he’d have talked about salvation and the next life. But even though his words didn’t express God’s love, his actions did. He saved dozens of lives, including Jimmy Breck’s, that day. Breck served his time, got the help that he needed and began rebuilding his life. He and James are still close. James O’Reilly became a national celebrity for his actions and turned down several job offers and a trip to the Today Show. He still preaches to a packed church every Sunday.
God sent him to St. Francis for a reason. And on that Easter Sunday, the reason became very clear. He looked at the quote from St. Francis of Assisi and smiled:
“Start by doing what’s necessary; then do what’s possible; and suddenly you are doing the impossible.”
I don’t just let anyone into my living room. That goes for strangers and for people on TV. If I sit down and watch a newscast, I (like a lot of people) develop a relationship with the people I watch. It’s a first name basis thing. “Oh, there’s Howard, Meghan, Maggie, Byron, Melanie, Faith, David — ” well, you get it.
TV is a transient profession. You get out of college, you start at a small market and work your way up the food chain. Jackson isn’t a small market but it isn’t a huge one either. You have two types of folks on TV. Legacy anchors, who have made Jackson home (or it already was) and those who have an eye on a bigger prize. That’s why you might never get to know a weekend meteorologist’s name. He or she might move to a bigger market in six months to a year.
Mike Sands came to us from Philadelphia, PA after a stop in Greenville. Paired with the talented Faith Payne, they were the faces I’d see when I’d tune into the 9:00 p.m. news on Fox40. Mike always seemed affable and did a good job. Then he faced the fight for his life. At 27, he was diagnosed with liposarcoma, a beast of a cancer that has had him fighting ever since.
The only time I have personally met Mike is when he came on my radio show. He was in the middle of fighting a recurrence of the cancer and I’ll be honest, our studio wasn’t big enough to fit his spirit and will to live. I can’t describe it. As optimistic and strong as Mike Sands seems on TV and on Social Media, in person it was even more powerful. You can’t help but pull for him. He’s the upbeat person who comes into your living room every night after all.
WLBT (whose parent company also owns Fox40) posted a tearful video that I watched this morning. The chemo is no longer stopping his cancer’s spread. He is going home to Philadephia to try immunotherapy as a last shot. Mike was choked up but still strong. Faith Payne was trying to be strong, too. I know this is hard on her as well.
As a cancer survivor, I sat there and watched a strong man live my worst nightmare. The darkness in the room was pierced by the light from my phone and from Mike’s remaining strength.
Part of me thinks, “Dammit, this isn’t fair! Here is a guy who has done EVERYTHING right!” Part of me prayed. And part of me thinks one of the best ways we all can honor Mike’s fight is to go out there and live our lives with the same gusto and strength he has exhibited.
TV folks come and go out of Jackson and our lives. I’m glad Mike Sands stopped into ours. He has set the bar high for how passionate we all should live our lives.
I pray the immunotherapy does its job, Mike gets his well-deserved miracle and he can come back into our living rooms sometime soon.
I really don’t want to watch a landmark building burn on live TV ever again.
As I was driving back from MPB, an announcer broke into the cable news XM channel with news of a fire near Notre Dame. Soon, it was confirmed that it WAS Notre Dame. My heart sank.
“Surely it was small and would be contained,” I thought.
At a stoplight, I checked Twitter and saw pictures. Oh God. The roof was engulfed. I got back into the office and watched with horror as one of the most beautiful cathedrals in the world burned out of control. I scribbled cartoon ideas. Nothing. I couldn’t come up with an idea that captured the sadness of the moment.
I thought to myself, “Why? And why now? This is Holy Week after all!”
Then I thought, “Yes, this IS Holy Week.”
Palm Sunday is a day of beauty and celebration. Then the week slips into darkness, pain and then death on Friday. Then on Sunday there is joy because of the resurrection.
Many of the precious artworks and artifacts were saved. The structure is basically intact. The cross glowed at the alter in the first photos from the ruined interior. Money has been pledged for repairs and France is united. In the face of a horrible loss of history, faith stood strong outside of the building as the crowd came together and sang Ave Maria together.
I thought, “It’s Holy Week. Today is painful but Notre Dame will be resurrected.” And I then started to draw.
