Handcrafted Page 4
Mercifully my granddad ended up paying us for our work. And it’s a good thing he did. With my cash in hand I bought a ticket with my uncle Dean to my first concert. We saw R.E.M. in downtown Atlanta at the Omni Arena. The opening act was the Indigo Girls, who sang a song called “Kid Fears” with R.E.M.’s lead singer, Michael Stipe, pitching in on vocals toward the end. “What would you give for your kid fears? . . . Replace the anger with the tide.” The words would stick with me to this day and remind me to not let the anger, the pain, and the disappointment of my younger years be the thing to guide me into the future.
* * *
As it turned out, when our family relocated to the Roost in 1988, we stayed only a year. Most mornings, I would come down and find my grandfather sitting at that pine table, just staring out at the foggy river and thinking. I was too young to recognize all the layers of his life, but I could tell he was a haunted soul. He had a reputation as a scoundrel of sorts, and one who was no stranger to the bottle. Over the years, many arguments and complicated feelings swirled between him and his children. In 2015, after fifty years of not seeing a doctor, poor circulation and old age claimed his life. It was only then that hidden chapters of our family’s history were uncovered. Hurtful chapters. And yet for me, despite it all, Granddad Martin was a pillar. With all the tension and uncertainty I’d experienced in my young life, he made me feel stable.
The year I was twelve, my grandfather lost his company when an employee he’d also trusted as a friend embezzled nearly all his and my grandmother’s fortune. I’ll probably never know exactly what happened with the business, but we were devastated to learn that he and my grandmother would also lose the home he’d built. The Roost was gone. Thankfully, he held on to the 240 acres of land he’d once purchased in Dahlonega, a small town in North Georgia and the state’s first site of gold, which kicked off the gold rush in the late 1820s. He eventually built another home there for himself and Ann.
During our very last visit at the Roost, we came downstairs one day to find my grandfather sitting at the yellow pine table with a knife before him. “Carve out your names,” he told us, his finger stabbing the table. “And when you’re done here, go do the same thing in the attic.” Each family member carefully scraped his or her initials in the location where we usually sat. When it was my turn, I dug right in. I wanted my mark to last.
That table is still in my family, sitting in a barn on what’s left of my granddad’s North Georgia property, and it’s beautiful. It has scars all over it. Scrapes, cup rings, places darkened from the oil of our skin, notches, and our initials carved right into the pine along with everything else. That table tells our stories. You couldn’t construct that kind of table in a week; it takes years for wood to weather like that. It was a table meant to bear the weight of a Thanksgiving feast, stand up under the stress of a family argument, live through spills, burns, stains, and messes. It sat there ready for friends, family, and strangers to pull up around it and lay everything out. And it bears the unskilled carving of a boy wanting to make his mark.
* * *
I was in the middle of the fifth grade when we first moved back to Atlanta. My sister Bonnie—a great student who’d always worked her tail off in school, even amid the upheaval of our early years—was in junior high. Because Dunwoody was a wealthy area, I went to a public school where even the hallways and bathrooms were shiny and new. The kids wore fashionable clothes and just flat out looked cool, which meant that with my buckteeth and generic T-shirts and sneakers, I was as out of place as I’d ever been (albeit before my time, no doubt!). It’s one thing to be the new kid with the cool British accent. It’s an entirely different matter to show up as the hillbilly whose front teeth enter the room a full ten seconds before he does. But what I lacked in presentation, I tried to make up for in humor and personality. Like my father and his dad, two born performers, I always had a good joke in my back pocket.
Though my appearance made me the perfect target for some brutal teasing, one kid liked me well enough. His name was John. “Hey, Clint,” he said one afternoon during lunch, “I play baseball at this church. It’s called Dunwoody Baptist. You should come check it out. Tryouts are soon.”
“Seriously?” I said, searching for a hint of sarcasm in his face. There was none. “That would be great!” I said. “I’m in! I’ll tell my mom today.”
Just about every parent I know wants the same thing for his or her child: happiness. So the day I raced home to tell my mother that I might have the chance to play baseball in the Dunwoody Baptist rec league, she saw the excitement on my face, and she made it happen. At the time, my family was still looking for a church, and by the end of the season, we were members at Dunwoody Baptist. Our move back to Atlanta seemed to be working out.
Over the next several years, some things stayed the same, but a lot of things got better. Bonnie and I still spent every other weekend with our dad, but at least now it was a simple drive across town with a driveway drop-off in place of the prisoner exchange. We still moved from place to place, but it seemed we were moving up at least, thanks to my stepdad landing steady work as a car salesman. After we left the Roost and had lived in apartments for a couple of years, we moved into a two-story house within walking distance of Peachtree Junior High, the school all my friends from church attended. We rented, just like always, but the house felt more like home than any place had before. We stayed there for three years, a record length of time for us.
During junior high, I became very involved in the youth ministry at Dunwoody Baptist, often traveling to Panama City Beach in Florida for church youth camps, a trip gracious church members funded whenever my parents couldn’t. It was at Dunwoody, from junior high through the end of high school, that the faith my mom had passed on to me started to become my own. I believed, even if just a bit too much. I was as staunch and earnest in those beliefs as I’d been taught to be, but to a fault with my own brand of stubbornness added for good measure. Take the one spring break when I heard some friends from my youth group drank some Smirnoff and Miller Lite. I nearly lost my mind. I’m most definitely not making a case for underage drinking, but let’s be honest, it must have been a real blast for my friends seeing my judgmental, Bible-thumping eyes staring back at them when they returned from vacation.
The second I turned fifteen, I got a job as a bagger at a Kroger grocery store. The following year, I worked at my church’s rec center, setting up the gym and fields for youth baseball, soccer, and basketball leagues. I used my earnings to buy nicer clothes and shoes and the occasional fast-food meal with friends. By this time I had braces, which my parents and grandparents had chipped in to pay for (though I’m pretty sure there was a final payment or two that was ignored . . . times were tough). My parents let me borrow their car as long as I bought my own gas. We were still living pretty close to the edge. And although some weeks I ended up handing over my entire paycheck to my parents so we could pay the bills, I was at least able to ditch the tight red sweatpants. Now, with a tiny trickle of personal cash flow, I was no longer a complete dork. I actually started to feel like a normal kid.
Midway through my sophomore year, we moved again (this time, out of our two-story house, which really felt like home), but thankfully not far enough away so that I’d have to transfer. By that point I’d finally made it to Dunwoody High School, and I had no intention of leaving! The place had it all: jocks, dorks, cheerleaders, varsity teams for every sport, pep rallies, homecoming parades, and prom. Most important, it had the greatest principal I’ve ever known in Jennie Springer. From her place of leadership, Mrs. Springer guided students and an incredible group of teachers from all different races, backgrounds, and cultures—certainly something that was otherwise rare for the suburbs of Atlanta—with an unmatched skill for creating wonderful harmony. I remember years later finding it quite hilarious and awesome that I, a kid from the “Deep South” of Georgia, was usually the one coming from a more diverse and progressive culture than the other kids I wa
s meeting. Those high school days were some of the best of my life, and I wouldn’t trade them for anything.
When it came to sports, I made the JV baseball team early on but didn’t get to play much. But on the football team, I was a legend—not as a player, my mom wouldn’t let me near a field given that I was born with a couple of minor heart issues, but as their number one fan. Win or lose, rain or shine, I was there to cheer on the team. After one rainy game, one of the players came up to me and said, “Hey, thanks for being out there tonight. In the locker room, Coach reminded us not to give up, just like you never give up on us.” It was better than any touchdown.
Despite the love of sports I shared with my dad, athletics never took off for me. But just before my junior year, I woke up to a new love: music. That summer, I’d gone to my annual church youth camp. My friend Chris Rice, who was about ten years older than me, led our group in worship songs as he played the keyboard and guitar. I remember watching him and thinking, If I could learn a few songs, I could maybe do what he’s doing. He spent his summers traveling and singing. What a life! I raced home and told Mom about my new dream. She immediately went to her room and came out with her beloved acoustic guitar. She then taught me the four chords almost every guitarist starts with: G, C, D, and E minor.
Later that summer, as we drove to Daytona Beach, Florida, for a budget-friendly family vacay (Mom wanted to get to the beach so badly, I swear she would’ve had us sleep in the sand, if need be!), I strummed my guitar in the back of our van the whole way. I’d learned as many songs as I could, a grand total of three. When we returned home, I’d lie in bed at night, practicing in the dark so I’d learn to make eye contact with people as I sang, just like Chris did, rather than staring at the fret board and searching for correct finger placement. A few weeks later I asked our youth minister if I could sing in front of the group as worship leader, and he agreed.
Soon after that, I assembled a small band and we played every Sunday and Wednesday at church. From then through the end of high school, I was seldom without my guitar. I dreamed of writing songs like Chris did, moving to Nashville, and one day signing a record deal. If that didn’t work out, I figured I could be a music minister. When it came to actual talent, I probably wouldn’t have made it past the first round of American Idol auditions, but that didn’t stop me. I am my mother’s son.
* * *
Until I was at Dunwoody High, surrounded by kids who never doubted they’d go to college, I hadn’t really thought much of what I was going to do after senior year. I had vague thoughts of either finding my way into ministry or maybe going to work for my granddad Martin. But discovering a passion for music and the positive influence of my high school pushed me to genuinely consider college. However, I was a C student at best—constant moving doesn’t exactly lend itself to good homework habits—so I had zero hope for an academic scholarship. I knew neither of my parents could pay my way, and in fact, the option was never even discussed. It was assumed that if I went to college, I’d figure out how to get there on my own. I’d once spotted my stepdad’s tax return, and that year, he’d earned around $20,000. Things were a bit better at my dad’s house, with both him and my stepmom working, but not so much that they could cover the expense of a college degree. It was financial aid or bust.
In the spring of my junior year, my friend Eugene, the most lovable guy, with an unforgettable grin, met me for lunch at Applebee’s by Perimeter Mall. He was a few years older and was already working toward his undergrad degree at Georgia Tech just down the road in downtown Atlanta.
“I heard you’re thinking about Baylor,” he said.
“Sort of,” I said, fidgeting as I pretended to study the menu. I was, in fact, definitely considering Baylor, a large private university in Waco, Texas—a college that had become a kind of nexus point for Christians, particularly those from the South. But because of Baylor’s expensive price tag, I was too embarrassed to admit to Eugene that the school was even on my list. He’d visited me in the apartment where my family had moved by then; the complex was surrounded by halfway houses. In other words, he knew our financial situation. Maybe I had it all wrong and he was going to suggest community college, but instead, he uttered a sentence that changed everything for me.
“Clint,” he said, “my dad and I would like to fly you out to Waco so you can visit Baylor and check it out.” I was stunned and grateful, and completely unaware of just how much his gesture would change my life forever.
My friend Chris, the worship leader from my youth group days whose singing career had inspired my dreams, happened to be in Texas when I visited Baylor that fall. He met me at the airport in Dallas and drove me down to Waco. It was an oven; even in October, Texas temperatures can soar into the triple digits. “Before we head to campus, I want to introduce you to Kyle, a friend of mine,” Chris said as we drove down I-35. Kyle, he explained, was pursuing ministry just like I thought I would and could be a great connection for me as I navigated the years and classes ahead.
We pulled into Waco and stopped at a soccer field where Kyle was playing in a game with the club team. He made an instantaneous impression on me. Laid-back and welcoming, he looked like he’d just stepped out of a Gap ad, while I, stuffy and uptight, looked like I’d just come from church. Later, while hanging out at his house, I learned more about his experience as a student and what my life could possibly look like if I moved to Waco. By the end of our time, I thought, If enrolling at Baylor means becoming like this guy, I’m in.
That instinct was reinforced a short time later. You know that feeling you have when something just seems right? That’s how it was when I stepped onto the Baylor campus later that day. The grass was so green. The trees lining the lawns were proud and strong. As I stood on the school commons, gazing up at Pat Neff Hall with its brick facade and golden dome, something whispered that I was home.
With no idea how I’d pay for college, I aimed high and applied for a scholarship from the school of music. But not only did I not land the scholarship, I wasn’t even accepted into the music school. My stepdad suggested I study business instead. That sounded like death to me. I wanted to sing and play my guitar, make an album, meet people, climb an invisible ladder, and find my own way. But first I had to get to Waco no matter what, so I took his advice. The following spring, I received a thick envelope containing my letter of acceptance into Baylor. My only way there would have to involve the F word: financial aid. I easily qualified.
I graduated from Dunwoody High in May 1996. By then, the foundation for my future had been laid. I was ready to set up shop for the next stage of my life in Waco. I’d learned some tough lessons from the chaos and drama that ensues when any family splits, and I’d made good use of the tools I’d been given. And that fall, with my Bible in my suitcase and my guitar under my arm, I showed up on Baylor’s doorstep carrying them all.
CHAPTER 4
* * *
Blueprints
I love journals. Especially cool leather ones that look like they could be a hundred years old. I must have a couple dozen of them sitting around my house. Some I’ve never written in, and some contain a few pages that hold my thoughts, ideas, and drawings. Once I feel inspired to build something, I pick up a journal and start a sketch. I scrawl out the dimensions, never drawing anything to scale but rather just mapping out how long and wide the table will be and how thick I’ll make the legs. I usually draw a couple of angles of the table, with one featuring the side view and one from above. It’s taken a while for me to get okay with the fact that my finished product will undoubtedly be different from my sketch, but taking the time to sketch out a dream isn’t a waste of time. It’s a plan—a blueprint for the way forward.
Emily and Laura, a couple of friends of mine who’d been like sisters to me back in our days growing up together in Dunwoody, were still just as dear to me as friends once we were all at Baylor. Early in my senior year of college I was invited over to see the new apartment they were sharing with some Ba
ylor classmates. As Emily gave me a tour of their new digs, one of her roommates, a girl with green eyes, came walking down the stairs. “Oh, hey, this is Kelly,” Emily said. “Kelly, this is Clint, our friend from back home in Atlanta.”
I wanted to say something smooth, but all I could do was stare. For what felt like an entire minute, I stood there like an idiot thinking, Wow, she’s beautiful. Where has she been the last few years? I’d later learn that while I was gawking, wondering how I’d missed this girl around campus, she was thinking this: Hey, Clint. Yeah, I’m Kelly. We’ve met like four times before. No offense, but I really don’t have time for this.
“Hi, I’m, uh . . . Clint,” I finally stammered, even though Emily had already said my name. So smooth.
“Nice to meet you,” Kelly said. I stared some more as we exchanged small talk. I told her I was a senior, majoring in business and hoping to do something in ministry when I graduated. She was a junior, studying education, and she shared that she’d grown up in East Texas. I felt so drawn to her. From the moment I met Kelly—or at least from the moment I actually recalled meeting her—I knew I wanted to be around her.
In the weeks that followed, I made that happen. I spent more and more time at the apartment, under the guise of hanging out with Emily and Laura, and things began to heat up.
Now, for the record, Kelly actually asked me out first. Sort of. Her sorority, Chi Omega, was hosting a “date dash,” an event for which members are told to invite two guys to a party at a club. You dance, get a free T-shirt, and just generally have good clean fun. On the one hand, it wasn’t an “official date,” but on the other, it turned out I was the only guy she invited. My confidence was on the rise. About a week later after that “first date,” I found the courage to ask her to dinner. We talked until close to sunrise, the first of many late-nighters for us.