(R) Adam Davidson

I turned 46 in the most festive way by blowing out candles jammed into a pumpkin pie — the official cake of November. Brittany easily found all the birthday candles in our cupboard and lit a fire hot enough to toast marshmallows and make s’mores — the official sandwich of November.

Strangely warmed pumpkin pie was one of the last things that happened on my 46th birthday.

The first thing that happened was me waking up. Of course, that’s something I’ve done just about every day of my life (indeed there were a few adolescent hibernation stretches during High School where I slept through an entire Thursday.) Practically speaking, I’ve woken from sleep every day. However, Monday was the first day I woke up as a 46 year old. That’s something new.

After the morning ceremonials, I was off to prayer in my garage abbey, which makes my lawn chair and retired dining room table pushed against scooters and flanked by toolboxes sound like something it’s not. The place of prayer is… the place where you pray. It needs not be fancier than that. I was still waking up, not just in my body but in my heart, soul, and mind.

As I prayed, I thanked God for the 45th year and asked for certain graces and mercies for year 46 — an increased awareness of His presence, a love that loves Him for who He is and not what He can do, and for me to be anxious about the right things — not the obstacles of life but the obstacle of self that limits reception of unfailing love. I spent time in Psalm 84, which I think will be my jam for year 46 because it expresses the Psalmist’s desire to be in God’s presence, whether the temple or the pilgrimage, going from strength to strength, and trusting Him for the results.

At Central, our team has been working on big picture stuff for the new year. A five hour online meeting may not be the place one would expect God to move, but He surely did. We were mysteriously unified around a common idea that will help build structure for the church in 2026 and beyond. A blessing. An awakening.

Brittany and Cam showed up at my office with my liquid love language: decaf coffee, Coke Zero, and a few dozen birthday donuts for my co-laborers in Christ. People did that thing where they cut a donut in half, eat it, and then come back after a few minutes and eat the other half. This is a ritual that every office worker knows.

Once I got home, it was time to feast. We chose Texas Roadhouse because 1) steak and 2) rolls with cinnamon-infused butter. As long as a restaurant has Chicken Nuggets, French Fries, and Sprite, Cam will happily dine. The servers shouted across the restaurant that it was my birthday, and I’m sure several people were possibly interested. Mostly my family. The leader of the singing server crew, the guy wearing the cowboy hat and has a God-given megaphone for a voice, asked me my age in front of everyone.

“Rude,” I said. Just kidding.

I said “I’m 67.” I did this precisely for my son who, like the rest of the enlightened world, has been taken captive by a random number sequence like we haven’t seen since The Macarena. Not only does 6-seeeveeen it ruin the joke — why was six afraid of seven — it also ruins basketball scores, math classes, and economically-minded thermostat settings.

Anyway, the crew at the restaurant didn’t smile at my audacious claim of being 67 years old, and that stung a bit. One must remember that, to the young, anything over 40 is roughly 70.

But I wouldn’t let a number ruin my birthday. I embraced it. Well, Cam embraced it. Brittany un-embraced it and told the servers I was actually 46, which is surprisingly close enough to 67 that they would have believed either age. “Yee haw!,” they said, and I agreed. It’s good to be alive. Even better than that bloomin’ onion thing they have there.

We got home and I opened wonderful gifts from my family — the people who are the real gift. However, after eating all that steak and onion blossom and rolls and complimentary ice cream (Yee Haw) I wasn’t really prepared — gastrointestinally speaking — to eat pie.

I’ve counted this as a birthday week. Not because I think I deserve that level of celebration but because Facebook kept telling me about your kind birthday wishes over the last few days. Thank you all very much. So, although the great Pumpkin Fire of 2025 was the last thing that happened on my 46th birthday on Monday, it has been a week of being thankful that I’ve made it this far and thankful for you.

As for the pie, it’s long gone now. Been a good week.

I’ve always been fascinated by conducting. Shaping the sound of a choir and orchestra through non-verbal hand waving is an odd thing for a talker like me. Watching the great ones — Sir Simon Rattle, Gustavo Dudamel, the great Leonard Bernstein, and Frederick Fennell — inspires me. In fact, one of my favorite YouTube videos is Fennell rehearsing Lincolnshire Posy with the US Navy Band. It’s over two hours long and not one second is boring (to me). These are fairly well known names in the music world. Many conductors have been inspired by their work, myself included.

There’s one conductor you may not be familiar with that I want to tell you about: Paul Black. I first saw Paul conduct a church choir and orchestra at the wee age of 15 and was inspired. He was different. Didn’t follow the rules. Moved like a happy maniac. Even with his back turned to me and the rest of the audience, what I saw — and, more importantly, what I heard — grabbed hold of me. I was more than inspired. I was awed.

How did Paul do that and what can I learn from it?

So, like a wierdo, I called him at his church office and started asking questions. I told him that I was going to school to learn music ministry and wanted whatever it was that he had. Paul was gracious and started teaching me. Through the years, as I led church choirs, orchestras, and rock bands, he was my source of inspiration. I took on the role of the sponge, desperate to absorb whatever he could impart.

It didn’t take long to recognize that, for Paul, this was more than the artistry and mechanics of music. He wasn’t just indicating tempos and dynamics, he was evoking sound from a unified group. It was worshipful, heavenly, and remarkably different from everything else I saw. College taught me how conducting works, but Paul taught me how to lead the worship of those who led worship as a conductor. The Holy Spirit worked through him, as if conducting on a different plane beyond the notes on a page. It was alive and spiritually vibrant.

When I was tasked with launching a traditional/blended worship service venue at Central, I knew I needed help. Before that, I had been a senior pastor who hung his conducting gloves up in the closet, assuming I’d not need them again. Yet, here was a new assignment from God. So, as I had done before, I called Paul and asked him to coach me and, by God’s grace, to get some of the same vibe I saw in his ministry.

Of course, I can’t get someone else’s anointing, but I knew that I could learn from someone who took the path I was searching out. Through conducing coaching and strategies for team building, Paul walked by my side and made a huge difference in developing my own skills and in pouring into others. He helped me see what God was doing and to join Him in that work.

Last year, I invited Paul and his accompanist Suzanne to come to Central and work with us. A Saturday workshop gave space for shaping not only music but the heart of our musicians. We saw the difference and wanted him back again this year. Last weekend, Paul and crew came back. This time, however, it wasn’t just to coach our people but to coach my conducting. In front of everyone. In real time. An earlier self-conscious version of myself would’ve crumbled in embarrassment. The goal wasn’t to look good but to grow — musically, communally, and spiritually. If that meant my conducting hero would correct me, I was happy to be corrected!

Like a kid in a candy shop, 30 years later. What an honor. What a gift. Not even scared.

The angle of your hands, the way you stand, the look on your face… subtle conducting changes make big changes in an ensemble. I know this up here (points to head) and feel it here (points to heart) but have to express it (wiggles fingers and waves arms). It’s not as easy as Paul makes it look — but I know that comes from years of trial and error, spiritual growth in his own life, and a willingness to give to others, which is exactly what he did for me.

There is a difference between inspiring people and impacting people. When I was just starting out in following God’s calling on my life, I was inspired by many — especially Paul. But, as he’s been generous in teaching me, I have been more than inspired. I’ve been impacted from up close. And it has made all the difference. I’m grateful for the mentors I’ve had in my life over the years. Last weekend with Paul was a special time for me and the people I serve, and I am grateful.

If you’re looking for a worship mentor, Paul is your guy. Highly, highly recommend.

Thank you, Paul.

Stoicism teaches that true freedom is found in the elimination of desire. Hogwash. You were built to desire, and muting that desire as a coping strategy simply doesn’t work — popular as the idea is.
Watch, comment, share.

This is a two-part problem with one solution.
Added bonus: is there such a thing as selfless ambition? I think so. What about you?

There are a lot of marriage jokes that get thrown around when someone is celebrating an anniversary. I’ve heard things like “we’ve been married for 15 wonderful years… 18 total. HA!” Both men and women have said this with a twinkle in their eye and maybe an edge to their voice. There’s lots of pressure to present well with a zinging disclaimer. “Oh, 30 years and we’ve NEVER had a fight”, which, in my limited observation, could mean that someone isn’t saying what they really think. Not that saying exactly what you think every moment is a good idea, especially to your wife. Or another — “I married my best friend and we’ve been blessed, blessed, blessed!” It’s good to celebrate and recognize friendship and God’s blessing (and/or an abundance of good experiences). These are all well and good, and I celebrate the ones who have made it so very long with no speed bumps. Marriage no easy situation because there’s a bit of dysfunction in all of us that bubbles to the surface at the worst possible times. Ask my wife: she’ll tell you what a jackwagon I can be. Brittany, on the other hand, is perfect in every way. Of course, if you ask her that, she’ll strongly disagree.

But she really is perfect. Perfect for me, at least. She knows me and loves me exactly as I need to be loved. I actually enjoy the rough edges we encounter because we usually know what’s behind them for each of us and find an opportunity for growth. We were both raised in certain circumstances that shape a person for the rest of their lives. There’s a LOT to be said about how your childhood experiences set you up for the future. Some are good, and some are in need slow re-wiring, which happens best in the context of a Christ-centered marriage. People are mysterious and contradictory and bizarre. At least I am. To quote one particular book title that sums human relationships up nicely: “Everyone is normal until you get to know them.”

I say this to couples that want me to perform their wedding ceremony. My first step is to try and talk them out of it, somewhat tongue-in-cheek. You can’t get married for yourself but for the other. I’ll say to the guy “you realize, of course, that your job is to love your wife as Christ loves the church, right?” “Uh huh” they say. And I drill deeper. “What did Christ do for the church?” Sometiems they have the right answer for this but it’s usually met with silence. “Um… loved it?” or something like that. “More than that,” I say. “Christ died for the church as a servant. Christ died for your wife to be, who is called to serve Christ. In other words, you’re the self-sacrificing servant of a servant of the Lord Jesus.”

“Uh huh.”

It takes a long time to learn how to serve someone at the same sacrificial level as Jesus, and it can’t be done by trying harder. It’s an act of worship (Romans 12:1) that calls us to submit to one another out of reverence for Christ (Ephesians 5:21). Marriage, therefore, isn’t about you being happy. It’s about becoming more like Christ as the Holy Spirit refines you by working through the person you married. I didn’t make this stuff up.

Brittany challenges me to be more like Christ than I would be otherwise. It’s not about me and never was. I say all that to say this: I didn’t marry Brittany because I wanted a good life, though I have one. I didn’t tie the knot to guarantee someone would be bound to take care of me, though she takes great care of me. We didn’t adopt each other’s kids because it would be “fun” to have a big blended family, though it often is. We did all of this because it was the right thing to do, joyful and challenging. Ours is a spiritual home remodel where there’s always painters tape stuck somewhere and a thin layer of sawdust covers the kitchen counters.

It’s like the Brady Bunch, but without Alice making up for all our deficiencies. We have to compensate for that stuff on our own with the grace of Jesus. Of course, we have a cadre of family and friends who help us out all the time. Couldn’t do it without them. But it’s no cakewalk. No wonder Paul suggested it’s better to stay single (1 Corinthians 7).

Today someone wished us a Happy Anniversary and asked how many years. I said “Three, but it feels like 30.” They laughed, thinking maybe I was dropping my own zinger. What I mean by that is that Britt and I have done so much in the last four years that it feels like every week is a month, and every month is a year. She and I went to dinner on Friday and took a quick inventory. In the past four years of knowing each other again, we’ve

• Flipped three houses, one of which was mine
• Signed off on the titles to 6 different cars
• Adopted each other’s kids (5 distinct feats of legal legwork)
• Had 5 kids in 4 different schools at the same time
• Started schooling and shifted employment after almost starting a business
• Merged households and encountered all kinds of different parenting approaches
• Renovated our kitchen and added a bedroom
• Sent one kid off to a career, the other off to college
• Learned how to raise and nurture a neurodivergent kid
• Buried our daughter, who presented with severe special needs yet made us much better people all around.

I’m not complaining, just pointing out that we’re dead-to-self serious about what we have in each other. She is a gift to me. Not like a nice painting or a knick-knack that you can set aside and enjoy every once in a while. No, this is like being gifted a house. And let me tell you: properly taking care of a house is a LOT of work. Enjoyment comes as a result of good maintenance by intention and action.

Three tightly packed, intense, and glorious years. Now that we’re rounding the bend to year 4, there are signs that things may slow down a bit — in a good way. But if we let go of Jesus or each other, we’re in trouble.

NOW on to the benefits of being married to Brittany Davidson. She’s smart & sassy, beautiful & feisty, honey & honeybee. She loves fiercely and takes care of her own — even those who aren’t biologically her own. She loves her husband with the love of Jesus. She’s changing into Christlikeness. She’s my best friend. And, let me say again, feisty. I love this woman.

I’m glad she said yes. I’m glad I said yes. We keep saying yes.

Yes to ALL of it.

A year ago today that my daughter Lexi died. I’m never sure whether to say “passed” or “died”. Death is a topic we all tend to avoid. To say someone passed away is giving a knowing nod without actually saying the word, kind of like calling it H E double hockey sticks or “you know where” while pointing down.

Incidentally, that’s not where Lexi is. Now there’s a great theological question best left to a great theologian. As a not-great, street level theologian, I say with blessed assurance that she’s with the Lord. My wife and I were just talking about her whereabouts this morning. In the hours leading to Lexi dying, she was looking at things with a unique glare, as if seeing something we couldn’t. This may strike some as mystical mumbo-jumbo, the kind of medicine you take to keep things afloat hope-wise, but I do believe that the grace of the Lord Jesus reaches into the inner soul workings of a nonverbal person in ways we can’t comprehend. I believe Lexi knew of a spiritual plane we won’t even begin to comprehend until our own passing, hopefully into the presence of Jesus. Based on that hope, I will see her again.

I once preached a funeral that included an open-mic time for the people to share their memories of the deceased. A bad idea from a young pastor. A woman stood up and said “If ANY of you want to see AUNT GLADYS again, you’ll become a Christian right now.” It was hostage evangelism. I don’t know if it worked or just scared the H E double hockey sticks out of the crowd. Who knows how the Spirit works, so I’ll leave that to Him.

Meanwhile, no more open mics at funerals.

Reaching into hurting hearts — that’s one thing that the Lord does at times like these. Brittany keeps saying that she feels like her heart is being torn in two, which is how I feel too, especially as I replay the events of the day a year ago in my head over and over. If hope is a medicine, it’s not like Tylenol where 30 minutes later the ache is gone. Instead, it’s like someone is with you in the pain. Jesus is the great physician who might dull the pain but goes one better in that He’s with you in the room, listening patiently to your pain while remaining present, full of love, grace, and mercy. There is peace in the ache.

It’s something (I’m told) you learn to deal with — the loss of a child. A woman who lost her son 30 years ago gives me a knowing look and a hug every Sunday morning. She says it doesn’t go away, and I believe her more now than I did a year ago. In that moment, she is the presence of Jesus. Maybe I’ll get to be that for you someday.

Lexi was many things for us — daughter, teacher, listening ear. She brought challenge to our world that had no reprieve. This is why so many parents of special needs kids/adults end up in a bad place. Divorce is twice as likely. Substance abuse is seen as the only escape from a Mobius strip of the daily grind. Kids go through phases where they’re afraid of the dark or staying out too late, or let their grades slip. These are but phases and seasons that come and go. In Lexi’s case, the diapers never ended. I would go speak someplace and do great things with microphones and spotlights, only to return home and have to brush the poop out from under my nails after an explosion. It’s hard to have a big head when you’re holding an audience one minute and holding a loaf of steaming feces the next. Jesus was there for all of it.

I hope that’s not too graphic for you. I’m trying to paint a picture here of why I’m not as self centered as I could be. I’ve still got a ways to go, but Lexi brought me right down to reality time and time again, and I’m glad for that. I was under her teaching, not for a long weekend, but for 20 years.

She would’ve been 21 years old next month. That’s a marker, kind of like today is a marker. As I’ve said before, I always had the hunch she’d die before me, but I sure didn’t think it would be this quick. She’ll be 22 next year. So it goes.

This weekend, Brittany and I mark three years of marriage. We’ve been together for 4, but it feels like 50. Today we keep looking at each other, crying a bit, and then moving forward with whatever life has for us. This late afternoon it’s landscaping for our front yard. Soon I’ll go get Zac from work. Cam has a basketball game tonight. People die and the rest of the world goes on, as it should. We’ve been given today with the relatively safe assumption of tomorrow. It’s only an assumption, though. Britt and I have learned — life can take a turn rather quickly.

If Lexi were here today, she would’ve started off by waking up with a severe case of bed head. Coaxing her with a bowl of warm oatmeal, she’d make her way to the bathroom to get ready. Dressed, ankle braces and shoes on, and (if Mom’s around) hair fixed up. She would’ve asked for a few songs and maybe a loaf of bread — whatever was in reach on the counter on her way out the door to the garage. She’d jump in the back seat of her Ford Focus, a rusted but trusted chariot that would get her to the end of the driveway as the bus gently glided down the road to our house. The back door of her car would be aligned perfectly by Tom, the school bus driver, so that Lexi would have as few steps as possible to take. Up the stairs and off to school. That’s what would’ve happened today.

At 7:19am, a Dean Transportation bus drove by our house but didn’t stop. The driver waved but continued on to the end of the neighborhood. I watch that bus – her old bus – go by every day around that time. It stings a little each time as the same route has one less stop.

Just as she wanted us to sing — the wheels on the bus keep going round and round, all through the town. Life moves forward for the rest of us.

I mean, seriously, what else are we supposed to do? Besides taking moments like this to process and mourn, there’s daylight burning and landscaping to be done. Basketball is meant to be played and night will eventually come. It’ll go that way tomorrow, too. And the next.

Those wheels on the bus keep going round and round. Though she’s passed (died, deceased, etc), she will come to my mind every day I’m here, whether the bus drives by or not.

Can’t show favoritism. If we do, we’re missing the point of the gospel — Jesus invites everybody to Himself, not just the people He happens to like. We are called to do the same. Watch today: how do you treat others? Is it consistent with the gospel?

We have too many options and too much stuff, and it’s turned us all into self-focused consumers who spend more time trying to figure out which of the million doors to open for our own happiness rather than the genuine needs of the world around us. God reminds us that our riches put us at a disadvantage. Wanna change? Turn your heart toward Jesus, the most generous and gracious One who walked among us and calls us to faith in Him as the ultimate fulfillment. This will naturally result in our seeing the world with different eyes.