Allow the Lord to guide you

By MARY JANE HOLT
Contribuing Writer

There is no other way to say it except to come right out and admit I went bar hopping. I've always wanted to do it. I've dreamed of being a fly on the wall and hearing all the sad tales that the bartenders hear. I've wanted to rub shoulders with all the lost souls that wander in and out of such dark and dreary places.

You have no ideas how many stories I hear. I mean folks tell me anything (and everything). Now, they don't always tell me their names, but anything else goes. It's been like that all my life.

Somewhere along the way I figured only preachers and bartenders could really identify with where I'm coming from. Oh, I don't mind hearing the stories. Not at all! In fact, the stories have enriched my life and provided cherished direction more often than not.

God is like that, you know. He's God! He can use anything and anybody to give direction to His children. We just have to be listening and looking for guidance. It comes. It always comes, if we don't try to box up God into some neat little package and limit the way/s in which He can speak to us.

SO… I'm in Nashville last week. I'm at a Southern Women's Conference downtown. It's across the street from the refurbished Ryman Auditorium. The Ryman is across the street from - you guessed it - a whole row of bars. One after another, there they are. On Broadway. Doors wide open. Inviting me to come in.

I went in. One after another, I stepped inside fully expecting to experience a full blown asthma attack. Lucky for me, it was four in the afternoon so maybe the smokers had not shown up yet. And there were no drunks either. Not even a smell of liquor. Go figure.

Most folks appeared to be sipping cokes or a beer, and just listening. Listening and tapping their toes to the music of the wannabees (want-to-bes). The walls of the bars were lined with autographed photos of thousands of major and minor country music stars who had known early on how it felt to be wannabee. Most, if not all, had performed on these very stages, either before or after the Grand Ole Opry.

Ernest Tubb’s Record Shop was right across the street from these colorful honky tonks that held me a willing captive for too short a time.

The first bar I entered was Legend's Corner. There young Bart Hansen, with his crystal clear blue eyes, and wearing his camel colored Wrangler jeans, belted out “Branded Man,” “Hello Trouble” and “One Piece at a Time.” His fancy cowboy boots never missed a beat.

At The Second Fiddle, where Clay Canfield was on stage with a wonderful head to toe authentic cowboy look and sound, there were more than 50 antique radios displayed on shelves on the walls.

I think it was at O’Doul’s where I was absolutely blown away by the talent of the group on stage. Would you believe I never learned what they called themselves, but Luther Lewis, dressed in black and sporting brilliant long Oriental tresses, sang lead. Dave Sermon, in overalls, was on base. Karen Dean, who had not dressed to impress anybody, commanded the drums. All three had voices that defy any descriptive praise I can come up with. When Karen let loose with “Red Necked Girl,” I was speechless. I could hear why she might think she doesn't need to worry about how she dresses!

At the Country Hillbilly Blue Grass Inn, or maybe it was Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge (I didn't take good enough notes!), Mark LaPierre, from Ontario Canada, comforted my tired feet and almost erased a headache that had been threatening all day with “Peaceful Easy Feeling.”

When I entered The Stage on Broadway, I took one look at the performer wearing flip flops, some kind of silky looking shirt, and gleaming with pierced brows, ears, nose, yeah the works… and I walked out.

I'm ashamed of myself for doing that. He may have been the best talent of all, but I didn't give him a chance. He did not look like I thought he should look. Johnny Cash would have been ashamed of me, too.

Lucky for Johnny and me, God never judged us by our covers. You would think I would know better by now.

I'm not sure I like that word “wannabee.” I like to think that, in God's diverse kingdom, we are all just flowers of different colors, sizes and fragrances -- blooming where we are planted for a season.