This is a story about second chances. Both of us had first go-rounds and neither went according to the dream. The gap between life and dream is sometimes daunting, vast. But, the good news with all-things-daunting is that, if you are lucky – and we are, you emerge on the other side, not only with a better sense of humor, but an understanding of the hard work it takes to make dreams a reality. Or, said another way, you live into a better sense of yourself. Kerri and I could be the poster children for people who’ve crossed the gap and come out laughing.
Early in our relationship we danced in the living room to Rascal Flatt’s song, The Broken Road. After our dance, we spent a long evening talking about our broken roads. There’s something powerful (and telling) about two people who willingly pull out their broken pieces and spread them across the table for the other to see, not for a pity-party but to say without shame, “This is me. This is what I’ve done and where I’ve been. I don’t want to hide any of it from you because I want you to see me, barnacles and all.” It is the mark of the tribe of second chances. Vulnerability as a strength.
In a second chance you have the opportunity to discover yourself anew. That might sound thrilling – and it is in retrospect – but it requires a good deal of hot fire to burn away the former shell. It’s as if the rules of life that have always applied, the rules that have always provided orientation to the game-of-life suddenly no longer apply. Trying to hold onto the old version is like trying to hide the fact that you are aging. It’s impossible. We started collecting our beautiful moments of denial and rude-awakening because, well, they were and are funny. For instance, I looked in the mirror one day and saw my grandfather staring back. It happened overnight and I was horrified! I spent the rest of the day looking for soft light so I might delay Kerri seeing my new grandfatherly face.
Second chances come to all of us. We have friends and family in our circle that are recent empty-nesters. The kids are gone. The house is quiet. They are asking two questions: 1) Who is this stranger sitting across the table? And 2) Who am I, the person looking back at the stranger across the table? Like us, they are walking through the rule changes, the body changes, the purpose changes, the identity changes. We hope that they, like us, recognize their barnacles as a shared map forward, a reason to bond and learn each other, and themselves, anew.
That’s the reason and the story behind our comic strip SMACK-DAB. Like us, it is a second run at a good idea only this time, less armored. For now, we’ll publish a new strip every Saturday. Our chronicle of second chances. Smack-dab in the middle of middle age. The laughter and good love that comes from splaying all the broken pieces across the table and saying, “This is me and I want you to know and share every last shard. For the rest of my life.”
Every long lost dream led me to where you are
Others who broke my heart, they were like Northern stars
Pointing me on my way into your loving arms
This much I know is true
That God blessed the broken road
That led me straight to you ~ Bless The Broken Road, Rascal Flatts
read Kerri’s blog post about SMACK-DAB.
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The Direction of Intention 
Ah, Maestro, yet another Cosmic Coincidence.
Once upon a time one of your favorite musical ensembles (and certainly mine) was tasked to provide the entire sonic environment for a wedding. Mind you this wasn’t just for the reception festivities. In fact, for much of that, Mom’s Chili Boys took a break and let classic recorded R&R favorites underpin the merriments.
No, we had been given a script of the proceedings and were asked to fill in all the “music here” blanks appropriately–from the human juke box duties while the crowd settled, on through the traditional wedding march to the end of the main event. Which task we succeeded at–according to the bride who had very specifically drafted us for it–effectively…
…if a bit uniquely as is always The MCB Way when accompanying church services, funerals and weddings.
A major high point in proceedings happened to be a performance of The Broken Road sung by the bride herself to her new spouse accompanied–ever so discreetly–by Mom’s Boys. There weren’t a whole lot of dry eyes in the place after that.
That newly minted team had been there, done that and bought the tee-shirts.
I delight in these cosmic coincidences. MCB’s seem to be a cosmic crossroads for these magical moments. No surprise there – MCB’s are cultivators of serendipity or just damn good artists, which is two ways of saying the same thiing.