Marshall Ramsey

Leaking rain dripped on the young priest’s head.

Father Thomas looked up at the Christus Rex and quietly asked, “Why?”

The Christus Rex looked down at him and didn’t say a word. It never did.

“Of course you won’t answer. You never do.”

Father Thomas was doubting. A man of faith was losing his. He continued to do his priestly duties.

It was cold, gray, dreary Sunday. The pews were nearly as empty as the collection plate.

St. John’s Episcopal Church was dying. And Father Thomas couldn’t save it.

Water continued to drip in from the cracked slate roof. Drip, drip, drip, the water hit the top of the Christus Rex. Like water torture, the church had slowly dwindled one person at a time. People died. People moved. Once a bustling congregation, St. John’s membership dwindled as the neighbors shifted to the suburbs.

Fresh out of seminary, Thomas Dunn landed the job at St. Johns three years ago. The Bishop, a short gregarious man, saw something in the young man. “I normally don’t like head rectors to be as young as you are. But you have been touched by God.”

Touched by God? What was that supposed to mean? Maybe he meant cursed.

Father Thomas struggled to bring the ailing church back to life. He opened the doors to the neighborhood. He worked repairing houses. He created a preschool for working mothers. Faith became a verb, not a noun.

Still. Nothing. Father Thomas felt like he was just throwing matches on wet wood.

He held the wafer in the air and broke it in half. “Body of Christ, bread of heaven.”

Rain began to fall harder outside. Water dripped onto the Christus Rex even faster. And then something miraculous happened.

Thomas didn’t notice it at first. But soon, there was an audible gasp as blood red streaks streamed down the wall. Father Thomas turned around and walked to the wall. He stuck his finger out and tasted the red liquid.

“Wine.”

“It’s a miracle!” screamed Hilda Taylor. Her 75-year-old sister Frieda yelled, “Praise God!” Her 13-year-old granddaughter took a picture of the wine and posted it on Instagram. Before you could say the Lord’s Prayer, the photo went viral.

The next week, the sanctuary was full. People came to see the St. John’s Miracle. And the miracle energized all areas of church. On Wednesday nights, the Vestry was full. People poured out into the neighborhood to rebuild it. The dying church came back to life. And soon, the community surrounding it did also.

And so did Father Thomas. His homilies took on new energy. He found words that turned words into action.

A year later, Father Thomas turned and looked at the Christus Rex. He smiled and said, “Thanks be to God.” Of course, the Christus Rex didn’t answer. It never did.

But this time, Father Thomas was a doubting Thomas no more.

The heavy wooden cross rested on my shoulder as my muscles burned. I kept thinking, “He carried this by himself?” I was struggling and had three friends helping me. One step forward. Then another. I focused on His march to Calvary as we walked down the aisle. Every few minutes, we’d pause. The burn intensified. “How did He do this? How did He handle the pain?”

When we got to the stand, we had one shot of getting the cross’ base into the holder. I knew it would be awkward if it fell on one of the singers — or us. There are worse ways to die but this would be from humiliation. I held my breath as my burning arms extended up. Three…two….one…..

We raised the cross like the flag over Iwo Jima.

And at that moment, the sun went down. The light behind the giant stained glass in the front of the church extinguished and the bright colors went dark. It was the moment hope died.

I felt cold.

The good news is the story has a happy ending. Easter came on Sunday and we were throwing Hallelujahs around like beads on Mardi Gras. But I’ll never forget that moment when the lights went out. When the sun went down. When I was diagnosed with cancer. When I lost a job. When I faced an injury. When I felt alone. When I…

No matter how dark the moment, there is always hope.

Happy Easter, y’all.

Red headed and freckled, the little boy’s face was flush with frustration. Blood caked his knee and salty water trickled down his cheeks. He yelled into the larger man’s chest.

“Dad, why is life so hard?!?”

Bullies had chased him down the street, caught him and then shoved him down. Luckily his father has been driving home and rescued his eight-year-old son from the melee.

“Dunno, but it just is.”

The little boy found no solace from his father’s answer and continued his outburst, “School is hard, too! Mrs. Bremer isn’t fair! She yells a lot and gives too much homework!”

The father dusted his son’s backside off and listened.

“And I don’t like baseball! I’m sick of playing in right field! That means I am no good!”

The father half-smiled. He wished he could wave a wand and erase his son’s pain. It was pain he had felt as a child. It was pain he felt now. What would his son do when he learned people he loved sometimes would throw him under the bus? What would he do when he was fired? Dumped by a girl? Cheated on? Under stress in his job? But he knew he couldn’t fight all his son’s battles. That facing trials and learning from them was part of growing up.

He carefully wiped his son’s knee off with peroxide. He remembered Mercurochrome and how his own dad would paint an orange smiley face on his wounds. When the bandage was firmly put in place he put his hands on his shoulders and began to speak softly.

“You are a strong little boy. The good Lord gives you challenges because He knows you are up to the task of handling them. Each tough moment makes you stronger. It’s part of your journey. Your mom and I will help protect you -but you have to learn to fight your battles, too. Bullies, tough teachers and the right field can either break you or make you fight to become stronger. It’s your choice. But I know you. You’re strong and determined. And you’ll fight until you succeed. Remember, if we don’t fall down, we never learn the power of getting back up.”

The dad thought about the challenges in his own life. It seemed like the darkest moment for him, too. But he knew that it was only during the bad times that he changed. He prayed his son could see challenges for what they were: Opportunities to grow. He hugged his son and gestured toward the door.

“C’mon boy. Let’s go get a milkshake. And then we’ll sign you up for karate like you wanted. Heck, I may even sign up, too.”

April Fool’s Day — the day when people try to trick you into believing something that is not true.

Of course, we spend the other 364 days trying to trick ourselves into believing things that aren’t true about ourselves. Don’t believe me? Think I’m fooling? Even Bonnie and Clyde thought they were innocent. Seriously. We craft stories that we tell folks to make them believe in the best about us. And we believe them them, too.

Why? The unvarnished truth hurts. It sends splinters into our ego. It tears down a very fragile self image.

We create excuses for our flaws. We spread BS to cover our mistakes. It’s easier to seek sympathy than it is solutions.

I got out of bed this morning to run. I had been “too tired” lately and had gotten into a mini-habit of sleeping in. If you had asked me, I could have given you a dozens reason why I should stay in bed. But this morning, I told myself the truth: I needed to get my butt up and get going. As I ran I thought about all of my failures (personal and job) — and you want to know what? Most of them were my fault.

Please, don’t get me wrong. I’m not beating myself up. And you shouldn’t beat yourself up either. But you the first step of success is knowing where the starting line is. And if you are living in some BS fantasy land of victimhood and excuses, you’ll never find it.

So April Fool’s! Hope you trick others today. Just do me a favor, don’t be an April fool. Stop tricking yourself today.

On today’s radio show (10 a.m. on Mississippi Public Broadcasting), we’ll be talking about what it takes to be successful. Success is such a loaded term. It really doesn’t mean having bags of cash. I’ve seen rich men who are miserable and I’ve see poor men who are joyous.

I’ve been “successful” and I’ve “failed.” Both are in quotes because in hindsight I’m not sure I had succeeded or failed at the time. Five years ago, I was a the top of my game. But that crumbled. Since then, I’ve rebuilt so many things and watched some of them crumble again. But I’ve also rebuilt some parts of my life on a more firm foundation. Anyone in Central Mississippi knows about Yazoo Clay (and if you don’t, country yourself lucky.) If you don’t build on a solid foundation, everything will eventually break apart.

Success starts with how you define it. My view of it has changed considerably over the past 15 years. I once thought it was using my talents to achieve my dreams. Now I know it is for me to use my talents to help others reach theirs.

That’s a big difference.

So if you were ask me what my five keys to success are today, this would be my list:

1. Have a purpose: You have have a reason to live. I file this under faith. It’s what keeps you going when the chips are down.
2. Organization: My weakness but I’m working on it. You must plan to live and live your plan.
3. Follow through: You must finish what you start. I’ve struggled with it, to be honest. It’s your word. And it is precious.
4. Hard Work: A work ethic is like Bondo on a car — it will cover a lot of faults. This is probably what has saved me from myself more often than not.
5. Think “How can I help others today?”: I always have loved this quote from Yazoo City’s own Zig Ziglar. “If you help enough people get what they want, you will get what you want.”

Those are my five? What are yours?

Last night, I wondered if my wife had slipped something into my drink. My head kept nodding up and down to the point I thought it was going to snap off. Then I remembered I hadn’t had a drink. I was just worn out. By nine, I was snoring on the couch. Can’t say I remember too much after that.

Saturday mornings are my long-run day. It’s a sacred time when I go clear my mind and burn a little fat. I got a late start this morning — usually a problem in late March due to the heat. But since Elsa can’t seem to let it go this spring, it was cold today. I put on my cold weather running gear and was on the road by 7:45.

The Reservoir was murkier than normal, causing it to look more like chocolate milk than water. The sun, already well into the sky, made the waves look like gold flakes sprinkled on the surface. I ran along the Natchez Trace and watched a fishing boat head out of a cove. He had to be cold. I know I was.

My breaths and footsteps started to line up. I was getting into a rhythm as the miles clicked off. I passed the oak tree. It was starting to get its green coat for the season. I decided not to photograph it today. I’m sure it already thinks I’m a stalker.

I went a new way today as I ran by the Jackson Yacht Club. White sail boats looked like mayflies buzzing the water. There was a certain fluid beauty as they danced out into the open water. I looked at my watch, I had run over five miles.

It was time to head home.

I finished 10.16 miles in a little less than two hours. I showered, ate some oatmeal and a chocolate donut (you run over 10 miles, you can have a chocolate donut). And then I went back to bed. I just woke up. It’s 4 p.m.

I have hit a wall. The stress of the last several months have taken a toll on my body and mind. Yes, I have a ton of work to do today but I just can’t seem to do it.

Tomorrow I’ll work. Yes tomorrow. Today, I rest.

Spent the morning at St. Joseph Catholic school in Madison. I spoke for about an hour to the middle school students in the performing arts center. They’ve been cutting out my cartoons and having to analyze them for a grade. Poor kids. Good luck with that.

Today’s talk included many of my favorite cartoons and the stories behind them. I told them about my process and some of the more memorable moments of my career. But I also let them know about my failures and how they are as important as my successes in molding me into who I am today. I also said:

1. They are amazing bright and talented kids.
2. They all have dreams inside of them
3. Like in the Parable of the Talents, they need to be servants who use the talents given to them.
4. They will face brick walls.
5. Brick walls aren’t always barriers. They sometimes are just there to see how much you really want your dreams.
6. They will fail. But that’s ok because failure can the best teacher.
7. The worst moments are the seeds for their best.
8. I believe in them.

That stuff was the pill. My cartoons and jokes were the pill pocket. I hope the message went down successfully.

Many of the students came up to me afterward and said I was the best speaker they’ve ever had.That’s high praise coming from an 8th grader. But what I what I really hope is that at least one of them will see me and say, “I can chase my dream like he did.” Because someone once did that for me. I pray I paid that blessing forward.

So thank you to the the students and staff at St. Joe. You made my morning memorable.

My friend Claudia left a brilliant comment on my Facebook page this morning. She brought up the last moments of the Germanwings flight. You know, the one where the plane went into an eight-minute decent before crashing into a French mountainside. She wondered what the people on the plane were thinking. Did they know? Were they calm? Did they call loved ones? I don’t know about you, but I always have a bad habit of putting myself on plane crashes. How do you prepare for a moment like that? How would you get ready for your final eight minutes.

I answered her by saying we should train for it like we would for anything else in life (like an athletic or academic challenge) We should live intensely for eight minutes at a time several times a day. If you are running, run hard. If you are eating, eat the best food. If you are reading, read the best books. Make the most of your life for eight straight minutes. Then increase the frequency until it becomes a habit.

That way, when your last eight-minutes do come, you’ll have no regrets. You’ll look at your watch as your last seconds tick away and say with confidence, “I have truly lived.”

Eight minutes at a time.

There was something about this morning’s rush hour that pushed my last nerve. Maybe it was the traffic. Maybe it was the fog. But I felt a huge sense of relief as I approached the downtown exit where I normally get off for work. I felt like a marathon runner approaching the finish line. Soon the medal would be in my hand.

And then the phone rang.

It was my wife. My son’s bus hadn’t come. It wasn’t that he had missed it. The bus just didn’t show up. She couldn’t get away from work. Tag, I was it. I got off the exit and turned around and headed back north.

My medal was snatched from my grasp. And I was pissed.

I started to feel a wave of self-pity wash over me. It wasn’t fair. Traffic sucked. I didn’t have time. The one morning I didn’t hang around the house… Wah. Wah. Wah. And then I thought about that time dad picked me up after middle school.

I had stayed after school to play intramurals. My dad, who owned a local gas station, was supposed to pick me up at 4 p.m.. I sat there, outside of the gym, waiting. And waiting. And waiting. It was 4:30. No dad. He was late. I was mad. How dare he? How inconsiderate. How could he forget his son?

Then my sister roared up. She threw open the passenger door and yelled, “Get in!”

I soon found out why my dad was late.

He was driving my other sister’s Jaguar. The car had stalled in front of our house and the electric fuel pump poured gas on the engine. It ignited and blew the hood off the car. My dad was inside a burning car and barely escaped with his life. (the fire was extinguished inches from two 26-gallon gas tanks. The explosion would have blown every window out in the neighborhood.)

I thought about that story as I drove and remembered my dad never complaining about picking me up. Never. Not even when he almost was burned to death doing it. I felt my pity party melt like ice in August. I took a breath and told my son that while I wish the bus would have come, I did enjoy the time we had together.

My dad’s memory was a balm for my bad attitude.

As I got to work (two hours later), I got a text from my son. He has testing today and made it to homeroom right as the roll was being called. He was grateful and gave me a very robust thank you.

You know, my work will get done. My time with my son this morning was much, much more important. And on the bright side, at least my car didn’t burn to the ground.

While running 50-yard sprints (with a parachute) I made a turn too tightly to avoid another athlete. My feet got tangled in my chute and I went down hard.

Thud.

I hit on my left side, but my injured hand did strike the turf. I guess I should have cursed but I didn’t. Instead, I popped back up and kept running. I finished the next thirty minutes of my workout (much of it on my hand.)

I write this because there has been a news story that has reminded me that life isn’t fair. It makes very clear that you can do good things and still be punished. Life will knock you down. It’s guaranteed. Life is an equal opportunity assaulter.

When I busted it, I could have walked off the field today. I had every right to. And I’ll be honest, it rattled me — I still am uneasy about my accident. But I didn’t leave. I kept moving and fighting on. Some of the exercises really hurt. Yet I continued. Because I know my training is about more than just exercise. It’s about mental conditioning, too. I know I’ll hit the turf again — while exercising and in life. AndI know I’ll get back up.

Life isn’t fair. But who said you have to be fair back? Just get back up and keep running. Show life who’s the boss. Because while you can’t control what happens to you, you sure can control how you react to it.