The Privilege

I have had the privilege of traveling to some of the poorest places in the world. I say privilege because I consider it just that. Walking with the poor is what Jesus did. Holding their hands is what He would do today. Ministering to them, He said, is ministering to Him. That’s a privilege. But all privileges come with a cost. In many cases, that cost is a broken heart. Sometimes, we need broken hearts.
I have been in a jungle in Thailand, where families live in shacks made of rotting wood, each built 3 feet above ground because every rainy season the entire village floods —taking lives and possessions away in the frantic current. I have seen how the families there endure the stifling heat, with little food to eat. Children, lethargic from lack of energy, don’t run or climb the massive trees that would provide perfect perches. Many of them work in the rice paddies to provide for their families.


I have been to Kenya, and sat with a family of five in their tiny 12x 14 home made of mud. I watched as the mother doled out one piece of bread to each family member for dinner. I saw her hungry children playing beneath the clothes-line with the only toys they had — clothespins. I saw where they sleep…mom, dad and three children, on one moldy mattress on the dirt floor.

In Bolivia, I met a four-year-old named Lalady. For some reason, I was drawn to her. I saw her across the playground at a Compassion project. I smiled. Within seconds, she was in my lap, touching my face with her sticky fingers…marveling at the color of my hair. We played together for nearly an hour. There was no language barrier. We just enjoyed each other's company. Then, her father came to pick her up at the project.

“She likes you.” He said in Spanish. (I know this only because there was an interpreter.)

“And I like her very much too!” I said.

“Maybe you could take her home with you.”

“Ha! Yeah! I wish I could!” I joked. Only daddy wasn’t joking. His face was serious.

“I have four other children. You could give her a much better life than I can.”

Whoa. What desperation leads a man to be willing to let his child go away with a stranger? How much love does he have for his daughter, that he’s willing to give her up, just so she can have a chance at a better life? I sat there, with little Lalady on my knee, my lip and chin quivering and my eyes filling with tears. My forehead sweating in the brutal Peruvian heat. My heart breaking.
And Lalady was one of the lucky ones. She has both parents who love her very much. She also has a sponsor that pays $32 a month to make sure she’s taken care of at the Compassion project. There, she gets a hot meal, a safe place to play. She learns about health and hygiene. More importantly, she hears about Jesus.

There are literally millions of children who need just those basic things: a hot meal, clothing, a safe haven, after-school mentoring…to hear the Gospel. You could do that for one of them. For a price that’s less than taking a family to the movies for two hours of entertainment, you can provide all of those basic life-giving necessities for a child in poverty for an entire month.

I urge you to go to Compassion's website and sponsor a child. It really is the least you can do. And I’ll be more than happy to share with you just how strategic it is. How much it changes a life. But you won’t have to take my word for it. You’ll get letters from your sponsored child, thanking you…little hand-drawn pictures telling you about his/her life. And you’ll be able to write too…and share your life with that little boy or girl on the other side of the world.

It’s a relationship.

It’s a privilege. And yes…this privilege will break your heart. Isn't it time your heart was broken?

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Seat for one, please.

I'm sitting here in the airport in Colorado Springs...heading to California. I'll be there for three days for some meetings with an advertising agency. This will be the longest time I've been away from my beautiful little boy. Leaving this morning was extremely hard. And he was in such a good mood..."talking" up a storm. For some reason, he does this thing where he kinda squints his eyes when he tries talking. It's absolutely adorable. He and I "talked" for nearly half an hour before I left. Man, I'm gonna miss him. As I'm sitting here in the waiting area of the airport, I can't help but notice something interesting about the chair arrangements. This isn't the gate area, where there are just rows of seats...but this is a nice lounging area, with much more comfortable chairs. There's one sofa...the rest of this large area is all single seats...each with a little table between them. As I watch people come and go, I see how the chairs farthest from anyone else are taken first. Only when there are no chairs all by themselves, will someone consider sitting across the little table from a stranger. Isn't that the way we are, as Americans, I mean? We all want our own space. We want to keep to ourselves. I've traveled quite a bit internationally, and you just don't see that in other countries. Total strangers don't think twice about bumping elbows with you in a waiting area...even if lone seats are available. As I've traveled through Europe, I've found myself uncomfortable a few times with that scenario. And it bothers me. Why do we go out of our way to keep from interacting with other human beings? We're not all that way, I realize. I'm traveling today with a co-worker who has never met a stranger. She'll talk to anyone. And even that makes me uncomfortable to be with her, sometimes. I can't help but think, when she starts a conversation, "What if they don't want to talk to you, Krissy?" But she plows right through. And people are always pretty receptive. Maybe there's something to learn there. Anyway, I just thought I'd share this realization with you. I'm going to go sit next to someone I don't know now. If I get extremely brave, I may even say hello. For more information about Tim Glenn, visit timglennmusic.com tim glenn

A Broken Fingernail...and a Mouthful of Gnats

A few of you have sent emails asking me how the SpiritFest gig went. Wow...how do I even answer that? It was probably the worst gig of my entire musical career...and it was all my fault. Let me take you back to 10 days before the concert. My guitarist, Brian, and I had decided we were going to do this gig as an acoustic set-up. Two acoustic guitars...simple...nothing too fancy. But 10 days before the gig, Brian called to tell me he can't make it. Something had come up...and he wasn't going to be able to do the gig. So, I panicked. I'm not a very good guitarist. I can come across as half-decent when playing with Brian because he's so good...he covers my mistakes. I'm definitely not good enough to do the gig on my own. So I called my friend, Clint Garcia, who is the worship leader at Valley Bible Fellowship in Colorado Springs. He's a great guy...and a great guitarist. To my surprise, Clint said he was willing to do the gig--on such short notice--and not only that, but his bass player and drummer would be joining us! BONUS! I was so excited to have a full band for SpiritFest. So, we scheduled a practice for the Saturday before the event. We ended up practicing for three hours--trying to teach them some of my songs...some new worship songs, etc. It went pretty well. Then, we scheduled another practice for the day of the gig. We would practice from 1-3pm, then drive down to Pueblo and do the gig at 8:30. Here's where things started falling apart. At the end of the practice that afternoon, I was horsing around, jamming with the band...and my finger got caught on the high-E string...the thinnest string on the guitar. The snag ripped the top third of my fingernail on my pointer finger off...and bent back another third of the nail. Man, did it hurt! I wrapped a band-aid around it in hopes that I would be able to play. But when we got to Pueblo, my finger was throbbing. Funny how something so small can cause so much pain. I took a few ibuprofen, but it wasn't helping. We started the first song... and I start strumming along on my guitar. It hurt, but I was able to tough it out...until the first chorus. It was humid, we were playing right on the RiverWalk, and I was sweating in the heat. My band-aid went flying off right at the beginning of the chorus. Ever notice how, when your finger hurts, that's the one part of your body you keep banging into things? I kept banging my fingertip into my guitar. Every tap hurt. To make matters worse, there were thousands of gnats flying around. I bet I swallowed 40 of them during the gig. Halfway through the chorus, the piece of my fingernail that was still hanging on got caught on the string. OUCH! I thought my fingernail was going to rip all the way off. The blood was flying...and I had to stop. My eyes seriously started watering. I was in so much pain! The rest of the gig, I tried to hold my pick between my thumb and middle finger. Not only did that affect my ability to play--which isn't so great to begin with--but I must've dropped 20 picks during that gig. All I could think about was how much my finger hurt. I forgot words...forgot to sing when I was supposed to. Then, when I tried to talk between songs, I was making no sense. I'm sure people must've thought I was high or something. It's the first time in my musical career that I honestly felt like saying "I'm sorry folks. You deserve better than this. I'll just leave." We managed to make it through the gig...but we didn't make any fans, that's for sure. All that to say, it was a terrible gig. Most disappointing of all, we didn't get a single child sponsored for Compassion. I was really hoping we'd get some people to sign up for the $32 a month to sponsor a child. I even offered a free CD to anyone who would sponsor. But the way I was performing, I couldn't have given a CD away for free anyway! I really took this one hard. All I could think about on the way home was whether it's time for me to stop doing music. If a broken fingernail knocks me so far off track, maybe it's time to hang it up. I'm just embarrassed that, after this many years of doing music, I can still do such a terrible job. It was humbling, to say the very least. Humiliating is perhaps a better word. My thanks to the musicians who helped me out for this gig. Clint, Steve and Ray did a great job. Poor guys, trying so hard to figure out what I was doing! I just wasn't up to par. For more information on Tim Glenn, go to www.timglennmusic.com tim glenn

Mayonnaise Sandwiches

When I was a kid I used to love mayonnaise sandwiches. That's right, just two pieces of bread, with a thick helping of Miracle Whip (which technically, isn't mayonnaise--it's salad dressing) in the middle. No meat, no cheese...no veggies. Just Miracle Whip and bread. I'm not sure how that started. Perhaps it's because we were so poor and often didn't have anything else to put between our two slices of Wonder Bread. It's not very nourishing. But at the time, it was a wonderful snack. And now, having grown up and had all sorts of meat-filled hoagies, clubs and Reubens, mayonnaise sandwiches don't sound very appealing.

As I look back on my spiritual journey, I realize how much of my life has been like that mayonnaise sandwich. I had the bread, but not much to put in the middle. My early walk with Christ was encapsulated in the only two things I really knew about Jesus:

1. He was born of a virgin, in a manger, under a bright star. Wise men came to see Him and brought Him gifts.

2. He was crucified for my sins. Died on the cross and after three days rose from the dead.

But I knew very little about the middle of the sandwich. What happened between birth and death? What did Jesus do with His time here on earth?

We can grow so complacent in our spiritual journeys that we forget about the middle of the story. And frankly, part of that may be the fault of the Church. Pastors--not all of them, but many--find it easy to talk about the bread. Sermons about how Jesus was born...and how He died for our sins are abundant. It's an easy topic to give the body. But what about the middle?

A recent Barna poll found that more than 50% of church-goers in the US said they had not heard a single sermon about ministering to the poor over the past year. Over 50%! But so much of what Jesus did was ministering to those who were hungry, thirsty, hurting, sick, lame, blind...poor. Jesus spent the better part of His ministry addressing those needs. And He told us to do likewise. Why isn't the Church teaching about the middle?

Seems to me that ministering to the poor ought to be the MOST preached topic in the Church today...not one of the least. If we truly want to be Christ-like, and we should, then let's start teaching Christ's message to the Church. Let's start doing what Jesus told us to do...and start serving the poor.

There are so many ways to get involved:

• Volunteer in a homeless shelter.


• Serve food to the poor at a soup kitchen.


• Sponsor a child living in poverty.


• 
  
  Give to your church's food pantry.

There's something every person can do. Jesus told us to do it. Anything less...is just a mayonnaise sandwich.

Remember the King

My favorite pair of jeans is in such bad shape. They're just about an inch too long, so each cuff is constantly getting caught under the heels of my shoes. Those cuffs are torn, tattered, and frayed beyond repair. But I don't really care. In fact, that's part of what makes them my favorite pair of jeans. They're worn...but oh so comfy. The other day I was sitting down, staring at the floor, when I noticed those long, stringy white threads shooting out in every direction from under my shoes. They looked beaten...from the countless hours of pounding my 190 pound frame on top of them...scraping them along sidewalks, carpet and tiled floors. So much abuse these jeans undergo!

As I was staring at my cuffs, I realized how much I feel like that some days. I'm worn out. I'm tired. I feel like bits of me are scattered in so many directions that I don't even resemble myself anymore. I'm frayed. But beyond repair? I hope not.

Jesus said,

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened...and I will give you rest." Matthew 11:28 (NIV)

I suppose we all get to that point of needing to rest in our savior. I've definitely been there lately. Wouldn't it be nice to take a break from the world and just cuddle up next to God? How I'd love to take a "time out" from life! It's those times that we need to call on Him. But I'm also reminded of the troubles that Jesus himself dealt with...and mine seem so miniscule. One of the most recent songs I've written serves as a reminder that, when life is tough, remember the One who took all of our sin and suffering upon himself. It's called Remember the King.

Are you broken, broken, wounded by the world? Lost, forgotten? Hiding in your hurt?

Come together, children of the fray Past behind you, forward to today. Just remember the King knows your story remember the King is on your side And the King laid down His Glory to become the sacrifice. When life begins to hurt, forget about the world... and remember the King.

I'm encouraged that, no matter how tough life gets, Jesus had it tougher. Every pain, every hurt, every disappointment and frustration that I've encountered...He did too. And not just His own...but everyone's. I can barely handle the heartache of my own sins. I can't imagine being responsible for everyone else's too. So today...a reminder...to remember the King. For more information on Tim Glenn, go to www.timglennmusic.com tim glenn

SpiritFest

Hi friends! I am gearing up for one of my biggest gigs of the summer...SpiritFest in Pueblo. This Saturday, we'll be playing in the amphitheatre on the RiverWalk. I have played this festival every year for the past four years, but this year we're the headlining act on the main stage Saturday night. I'm so stoked! But it almost didn't happen. Last week, my guitarist, Brian DeKam, told me that he can't make the gig. Yikes! We were going to do this as an acoustic gig...just the two of us on guitar. So...I panicked! I called my good friend, Clint Garcia, to ask if he could help. Clint leads worship at Valley Bible Fellowship in Colorado Springs. I've filled in for him a few times over the past year. It's a great church...great people. To my surprise...and delight...Clint agreed to help out! On such short notice! And, even better, two other guys from the worship band at the church are going to play too! Steve Kreuger will be playing drums. Ray McDaniel will be playing bass. Clint will play electric and I'll play acoustic. And my wife, Jen, will be singing background vocals--IF we can find someone to watch the baby during our set. We're going to have a full band! I'm so excited! I hope you can make it to the gig! Here are the details:

SpiritFest

Historic Arkansas RiverWalk

Pueblo, CO

8:30pm

FREE!

For more information on Tim Glenn, go to www.timglennmusic.com

tim glenn

I Traveled Back in Time...

I thought I'd share this story with you about a "dream" I had nearly two years ago. I swear that what I'm about to share with you is true. I realize that, once you read this, you'll be inclined to think that I'm losing it. But I tell you, dream or not, this was a real moment in my life. I was at a point in my life where I was really struggling with being completely unhappy with where I was. I don't know, maybe it's because I was getting older…and hadn't achieved any of the goals I had laid out for myself. I was struggling with depression on a major level. My life just hadn't turned out how I had hoped. And, seemingly at the end of my rope, I started begging God, almost daily, to let me go back in time. "Please, God...let me go back to college and start over. I've screwed up my life in so many ways since then. Can I please have a do-over?" I became so obsessed with the notion that it was all I thought about…at work…as I was lying down in bed to sleep at night, etc. During my drive to work everyday, I would talk out loud to God, pleading my case. "God, you can do anything. You are the one who created time. You can send me back. No one has to know. Just let me go back and start over. I'm just so disappointed with the way things have turned out. I won't tell anyone, I promise!" Then, after several weeks of this pleading, God answered. It was late at night and I had just laid down in bed for the night. I closed my eyes and started praying that prayer again, silently. It was seriously one of the most earnest prayers I had ever prayed. It was a prayer of desperation. Before I knew it, I was sound asleep. But within only a few short minutes, I awoke. Wait...where am I? I wasn't in my big comfy bed at home...I was on a small, hard mattress. I sat up. Wait a minute…I recognize this place. Holy cow! I'm in my dorm room! You did it! God thank you! Thank you! I can't believe you let me do this! Oh this is awesome! I sat there on the edge of the squeaky little bed. Room 210 of Jennings dorm on Howard Payne University campus. The room wreaked of the dirty laundry that was always piled on the floor. The bluish glow of the streetlight outside was peering through the blinds. It was my dorm room…just the way I remembered it. I must have sat there for 20 seconds, eyes and jaw wide open, taking in the entire scene. It was honestly one of the most miraculous and happiest moments of my life. I looked across the room. There was my roommate, Kevin Gradel. He was sound asleep in his bed, curled up facing the cold, white brick wall. It was so bizarre to see him. Kevin died in 1997 from complications due to diabetes. Once I graduated, I lost touch with him. I only found out about his death while trying to track him down online a few years later. I was heartbroken to find out he had died. I didn't even get to go to the funeral.Yet there he was…sound asleep just a few feet away from me. Without hesitation, I jumped out of my bed and ran over to Kevin and started shaking him. "Kevin! Kevin! Wake up! Listen to me...you've got to get some help dude...you've got diabetes. If you don't do something about it, it's going to kill you in 1997!" No sooner than I finished the sentence, I found myself waking up back in my bed at home. No! No! I screwed up! I had a chance and I screwed up! Somehow I knew I wasn't supposed to share that information with Kevin, but I did it anyway. I broke the rules...and God brought me back. As I lay there in my bed, I started weeping. I'm not sure if my wife heard me crying in bed or if she just decided to let me cry it out. She had been dealing with my depression for so long that she must've been at wit's end on what to do next. So many emotions came over me. Was that my chance? Did God really give me a chance to start over…only to have me screw it up? Seeing Kevin alive brought so many emotions too. Feeling helpless that I couldn't stop his impending death. To this day, I'm still torn, wondering whether this was a dream or an actual event. I know that sounds odd, but it was so real. The smells, the details. The fact that I immediately knew that God had taken me back in time. He had granted me this desperate wish. I got my do-over…and blew it. For more information on Tim Glenn, go to www.timglennmusic.com tim glenn

Baby Morgan is Here!

Note: This blog originally posted on March 27, 2007. But somehow I lost all my blogs and am having to re-post them.

Let me tell you about the best day of my life. In actuality, I should say "the best 24-hour period of my life" because it spanned two days on the calendar. It began around noon on Tuesday, March 20th. My wife Jen, 39 weeks pregnant (typical pregnancies are based on a 40-week period, for those of you who don't know) started having contractions about every ten minutes. Well, we're not supposed to go to the hospital until the contractions are 3-5 minutes apart. So my poor wife had to endure the painful contractions at 10 minutes apart...for nearly 12 hours! It was exciting, because we knew this meant that baby Morgan was one day closer to being here. But it was frustrating when the contractions refused to get any closer...hour after hour...after hour. Finally, around 11pm, the contractions did start getting a little closer. 7 minutes...5 minutes...3 minutes. Once they were consistently 3 minutes apart, we headed to the hospital. The doctor checked us into a small room and put Jen on a monitor. "She's 3 centimeters dilated." she told us. (You can't have the baby til you're around 10 centimeters dilated. We still had a way to go.) So they continued to monitor Jen and the contractions kept coming...getting as close as 2 minutes apart. After about four more hours of this, the doctor checked Jen again. Still only 3 centimeters apart! All that painful work...and no progress! So the doctor decided to put Jen on pitosin--a drug that would increase the frequency--and intensity--of the contractions. After about an hour on the drug, Jen progressed to 4 centimeters. But the contractions had become terribly painful. So, we opted for the epidural--a painkiller administered into the spine that pretty much takes away all feeling from your waist down. It was a scary decision, but once it was administered, Jen never felt another contraction. But it wasn't over yet. After another hour, the doctor noticed that baby Morgan's heart rate was decreasing every time Jen had an intense contraction. They tried having her roll over to the opposite side she was lying on...but that didn't work. So they monitored closely. His heart rate kept dipping...dipping...dangerously low. We both began to worry. I sent out nearly two dozen text messages, asking friends to pray. And I prayed myself.

"Please God, don't let us get this close and lose this little boy. I can't take it. My heart can't take it. Please bring him to us safely...bring us a healthy baby boy."

After a couple more dips in heart rate, the doctor decided to take Jen off the pitosin and schedule a c-section. With lightning speed, the nurses were in our room, wheeling Jen's bed out the door, down the hallway and up a ramp into the operating room. They gave me a mask, gown, hat and shoe coverings to wear. It was amazing seeing the doctors scramble so fast--like watching a hospital drama. Within minutes, Jen was laid out on the table. A blue sheet was laid out like a curtain between her and the doctors, so she couldn't watch the operation. I, on the other hand, was able to watch. I've sat in on a few operations in my life, so I knew I could handle the sight. (I gotta say though, knowing that it's your wife that they're cutting open is a little different.) The doctors made the incision, then started cutting through muscle and tissue. Suddenly, the doctor stopped cutting and reached both of her hands inside of my wife's abdomen. She dug around for a few seconds, then pulled her hands out and they were holding a little baby's head. He has dark hair! They clipped the umbilical cord and suctioned out his mouth and noise within a milisecond. Then it came...that sound I've waited so many years to hear:

"Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh!" Oh, what a beautiful sound!

"Who has the dimpled chin?" the doctor asked.

"Dimpled chin?"

"Yeah, he's got a dimpled chin."

"My dad had one. But I didn't really inherit it. Wow...he's got my dad's chin. How cool is that?"

He cried as they scrambled his little body over to a warmer a few feet away...and started cleaning him up. Tears filled my eyes. "That's my son! Oh...and he's beautiful!" My poor wife had to lay there behind the blue curtain, still unable to see anything. So, once they got him cleaned up, I carried our son over to her and let her touch his face. The waterworks were flowing for both of us at that point, I tell ya! They had to sew Jen up and then she had to go into recovery from the operation. That took three hours. Three hours without getting to hold her newborn son. It must have been excruciating for her. But I spent every second of those hours with him...as he took his first bath...got his vaccinations...tested for every imaginable abnormality...and weighed him. "Five pounds...3 and a half ounces. He's a little peanut." nurse Libby said. "18 inches long. What a cute little guy." Yep, he's a tiny guy....but absolutely adorable. Once all the tests were done, I sat in a rocking chair with him for an hour...and we just stared at each other. "Morgan...I'm your daddy." It was the same sentence I started with every night, as I spoke to him through my wife's belly during her pregnancy. Now, I finally get to see the face of the little boy I was addressing...and he could see where the voice was coming from. It was an amazing time of bonding. I truly have fallen in love. I've wanted to be a daddy for so long and now God has granted me this wish...this little blessing that is the result of years of prayers. It is amazing. The most wonderful day of my life. Welcome to our world, little Morgan Douglas Glenn. We've waited a long time for you.

For more information on Tim Glenn, go to www.timglennmusic.com

tim glenn

The Soles Of My Shoes Don't Get Dirty

Note: This blog was originally posted on December 7, 2006...but somehow I lost all of my blogs and am having to re-post them. July 17th, 2006 is a day I will never forget. It's the day I stopped walking on solid ground. It didn't start off so spectacular. For all intents and purposes it had the makings of a typical day. I got up at 6:45am, went to work, sat through a gajillion meetings, shuffled through emails and paperwork and came home. Nothing out of the ordinary. Until I walked into the house. I entered through the garage as usual. As soon as I opened the door, I noticed my wife standing in the kitchen smiling. On the kitchen table was a small gold gift box. "Open it." she said, grinning from ear to ear. "But my birthday isn't until tomorrow." "Just open it!"I sat in the chair at the dining table and grabbed the small box in my hand. What's inside? Why is Jen being so secretive. It's not like her. "Isn't it bad luck to open my birthday presents befo..." "Open it! She clinched jer jaw with the command, but she was still unable to hide her toothy grin. I lifted the lid of the tiny gold box. I was immediately confused by what I saw inside. It was a pocket watch, with the words "World's Greatest Dad" engraved on the outside. I must be a little slow because all I could think was "Is this her dad's old watch? Why would Jen's dad give me this watch? Is this something he's 'passing down to me' since he never had a son? What could this mean? I lifted the watch out of the box and underneath it was a pair of a blue baby socks...and a pair of pink ones. "You're going to be a daddy." My wife said, with tears welling up in her eyes.You have no idea how long I've waited to hear those words. My wife and I have been married for 12 years and it just hadn't happened for us. To be honest, I had given up on the hope of ever having a little baby in the house. But on July 17th, 2006, God breated new hope into our home. As tears poured out of my eyes uncontrollably, I hugged my wife. Then asked the question every man must ask at that moment: "Are you sure?" (How could such joy be based on reality?) "Yes. I took two tests just to make sure." She showed me the two pregnancy test sticks. Both positive. "Take it again!" I insisted. Which she did...all three positive! We danced in the kitchen...and the living room...and then stopped to pray. We thanked God for the blessing and prayed for a healthy baby that we could commit to Him. My father died when I was seven. I have only a couple of memories of him. Yet, I think I've always feared that I could never be half the man he was. Half the father he was. You see, my mother abandoned me and my siblings when I was five. My father spent the last two years of his life raising five children. And he was sick. He was dying. What a father. Could I be that kind of father to my child? Since July, my wife's little belly has grown. Occasionally, you can see a little nudge on the surface of her tummy...from the inside. Amazing. Every night, I place my head near her belly and listen to him moving around in there. Oh yes, it's a boy! We found out 20 weeks into the pregnancy. His name will be Morgan Douglas Glenn. Douglas was my father's name. After I listen for awhile, I talk to my son. I love the way he reacts to my voice. I wish I could hold him now. But, as God loves to do with me, I'm learning one more lesson in patience. Little Morgan needs that tiem in his mother's womb. So I must learn to wait. Ever since that hot July day, I have not walked on ground. My shoes have not touched the earth. I just hover. Most of the time I'm about six inches above the floor. Yeah, the soles of my shoes do not get dirty. I don't know if every man wants to be a father as much as I do. I don't know if every father-to-be yearns to hold his child like I do. I only know that I can't wait to hear that baby's cry....to hold him in my arms....to hear him call me "daddy" for the first time...to play with him on the floor and teach him all the things that little boys need to know. I can't wait to have him hold my hand as we cross the street or in the mall...whereever. And you can bet that, with every step, my feet will never touch the ground. For more information on Tim Glenn, go to www.timglennmusic.com tim glenn