Traveling on Grace Street

By Jeff Blake

Traveling on Grace Street

The most important lesson I have learned in the fifty years I have spent working toward the building of a better world is that the true work of social transformation starts within. It begins inside your own heart and mind. Thus, to truly revolutionize our society, we must first revolutionize ourselves.
Its been a long journey, all the way from stepping off a cotton farm in Alabama to the epicenter of the struggle for civil rights in America. Some days when I go to my office in the early morning and look out over the great monuments beyond the Capitol, I think, How could this be? How could a poor boy from Alabama have lived such a life? I tell you, it has been the grace of God.
Jeff Blake, a brother from Alabama, has written the story of grace in his own journey, and I am pleased to commend his Traveling on Grace Street to you. He too has been in the struggle. He too has kept his eye on the prize.
John Lewis
United States Congressman
Atlanta, Georgia

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483670973

Jeff Blake

Jeff Blake keeps giving his fellow travelers stirring stories of grace, always weaving a tapestry of hope and love, always living at the intersections of what he now calls the homestretch. This book follows his travel on Grace Street and more travels on Grace Street. He says his nine grandchildren are his mentors in grace: Adam, AJ, Claire, Elijah, Isaac, Marlie, Nolan, Olivia, and Owen. He also offers a heartfelt “Namaste,” which, in the Hindu tradition, means, “The God in me recognizes and honors the God in you.”

Book preview

CONTENTS

FOREWORD

PREFACE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

BEGINNINGS IN GRACE

GRACE IN THE STRUGGLE FOR CIVIL RIGHTS

GRACE IN MY FAMILY

GRACE IN BEING GAY

BOOKS OF GRACE

PEOPLE OF GRACE

PLACES OF GRACE

GRACE IN BROKENNESS

THE GRACE OF NATURE

GRACE IN A VERY OLD STORY

THE GRACE OF AGING

THE GRACE OF DYING

For my grandchildren who make all things new—

Adam

AJ

Claire

Elijah

Issac

Marlie

Nolan

Olivia

Owen

FOREWORD

When my dad asked me to write the foreword for his memoir, I asked, What’s that?

He said in a fatherly tone, Are you asking what a foreword is, or what a memoir is? and we both laughed.

I think I have a pretty good idea what those words mean, and I know my dad knew immediately that I felt honored to be asked. His only words to me were You’re a good writer, just write in your own voice. I’ve listened to his voice for so long sometimes my voice sounds like his voice.

I personally think that one of the best compliments that can be paid to someone is to say they lived like they were dying. That may sound strange, but I think it is true. My dad has been living like he was dying for as long as I can remember. He’s intense and not nearly as laid-back as I am.

He squeezes more out of a day than a lot of people get out of a week or longer. That may be a bit of an exaggeration, but it’s close as far as his enthusiasm for life goes.

One of the most enjoyable times of my day is when I read a journal entry that he has sent me.

I treasure each and every one, and I save them all—hundreds of them.

I never know what to expect when the phone rings and I see his name on my caller ID. I know he’s calling, but other than that, all bets are off as to what he’ll say or what we’ll talk about. Sometimes, during college football season, we’ll say, Roll, Tide, roll! We’re big Alabama fans.

There have been some surprises when he calls, like the times when he told me about afternoons spent with cultural icons of our time: Wendell Berry, the poet/environmentalist/philosopher/farmer from Kentucky; John Lewis, a lion of the civil rights movement from Alabama, currently a member of the United States House of Representatives from Georgia; Will Campbell, another civil rights pioneer, author from Mississippi, and contemporary of John Lewis; Gene Robinson, another Kentucky native who became the first openly gay Episcopal bishop. And I almost forgot Bo, you know, the first dog of the United States—Bo Obama.

These American heroes, along with countless others, have helped shape my father’s story. Their examples of strength, humility, and grace are lights in what can, at times, seem like a dark world. Read what he has written and you will understand why I am proud of him.

There have also been times when I wasn’t at all surprised with what Dad had to say, like the time he called and said that he was going to write a memoir. I knew he had a story to tell.

I’ve thought about how to end this. I just want to say my dad is a beacon of light to me.

Stephen Blake

PREFACE

There is a thread that runs through our lives called grace.

This thread has no origin or end. It weaves rich textures in a tapestry that is our journey.

Sometimes we barely know this grace exists, and at other times, it overwhelms us with a depth that touches the core of our being. We get an inkling of mystery, and we are only able to whisper our gratitude.

We do not work our way into this grace, for it slips up on us, often when we are least expectant.

There is no earning this experience for it is a gift, and not one of us is denied this gift regardless of our past or present circumstance. We simply open our hands like children and accept what is given.

Grace is a resounding yes when all other voices say no. Grace comes running after us while we are yet a long way from home. Grace is the turnaround. Grace changes us from the inside out. We are accepted just as we are—no conditional clauses, no strings attached.

It makes no difference what we call this experience of the mind or heart. It only matters that we accept the fact that we are accepted. Not a single one of us is unimportant or unworthy, for it really has little or nothing to do with us but everything to do with a love that will not let us go.

There are a hundred ways to say grace. Grace is the chair in which we sit. Grace is an eraser. Grace is the red nose of a clown who blows up long balloons to form a poodle and makes us laugh. Grace is a redheaded woodpecker perched on the branch of a tree. Grace is the wings of a bird, the waves of the ocean crashing to the shore, the first coffee with a new friend, a baby’s cry, a candle chasing the blues away. Grace is the evening sun that turns the trunks and roots bronze. Grace is the first magnificent light of the early morning when the earth is more still.

Grace Street is not Easy Street. In fact, Grace Street may be a hard row to hoe, as the old farmers say.

There may be detours, roadblocks, speed bumps, and caution or stoplights. We may get stranded alongside the road, unable to thumb a ride with a single soul. We may find ourselves on a very long stretch of barren land and feel misunderstood or isolated, particularly when it comes to building a community, but it is worth the investment if we keep going.

I have come to the autumn of my life and a kind of summing-up time. Every day increases my awareness that grace has been my constant companion. I have soared on the wings of the morning and stumbled in the abyss that’s hidden in the night, only to hear a voice saying, Yes, always yes.

Paul Tillich speaks of this grace: "Sometimes at that moment a wave of light breaks into our darkness and it is as though a voice were saying: ‘You are accepted. You are accepted,’ accepted by that which is greater than you, and the name of which you do not know. Do not ask for the name now; perhaps you will find it later. Do not try to do anything now; perhaps later you will do much. Do not seek for anything; do not perform anything; do not intend anything. Simply accept the fact that you are accepted."

For a long time, I was hesitant to write my story. I wasn’t sure how honest or forthcoming I would be. I got clarity on the matter when I read these profoundly moving words from Fyodor Dostoyevsky in The Brothers Karamazov: Above all, don’t lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love.

Over the years, I have practiced the joyful discipline of journaling. I have taken parts of my entries and used some of them as springboards to write this memoir of family, people and places, books, nature, aging, and more. My hope is that what you read here will give you a view of my journey and that these words will be a source of grace for you.

I invite you to read these stories. I also have a request. When you are finished, I ask you to give me the privilege of hearing your stories, because for me, life is a conversation on a journey of grace.

I’m reaching out, hand to hand, heart to heart. We have stories to share.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I could not have written this memoir without the support of Cathy Edgett, a compelling author who lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. She is more than a writing coach. She has traveled every step of the way with me. Cathy has prodded, challenged, and inspired me. I hear her saying, Keep writing. Keep writing from your heart. You can do this. This is wonderful. This is great.

I owe a debt to Mary Kay Kidwell, a longtime friend from Richmond, Indiana, for editing this writing. She’s the best at editing among all persons I know, and I extend immense thanks to her. She spent countless days on this project and was very helpful.

My children, all of Kentucky, are so much a part of this memoir. Stephen, my son, was a great