BUCK STORM

Traveler’s Tip #349 
  
“When everything is falling apart, everything is falling into place.” 
                                  —Mike Evers 
  

Dear Travelers, 
  
Just a quick note of encouragement today. 
  
I know it feels like you’re hanging onto the end of a rope while the inmates cackle and saw away at the top. I know it feels like your beliefs, the things you hold dear, your very contribution to society are attacked and despised. 
  
And they are. After all, we humans are insistent on repeating history. 

This is frustrating because you do your best to love others. And it feels like you can't defend yourself.

But you don't have to.
  
Be at peace!  When everything is falling apart, everything is falling into place. Our hope, our security, is in the End of the Story. 
  
There will be justice. 
There will be goodness. 
There will be peace. 
There will be love. 
  
Don't worry. Let go of the rope, my friends. The fall is beautiful… 
  
  
Psalm 46 
  
God is our refuge and strength, 
A very present help in trouble.  
Therefore we will not fear, 
Even though the earth be removed, 
And though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea;   
Though its waters roar and be troubled, 
Though the mountains shake with its swelling. Selah   
There is a river whose streams shall make glad the city of God, 
The holy place of the tabernacle of the Most High.  
God is in the midst of her, she shall not be moved; 
God shall help her, just at the break of dawn.   
The nations raged, the kingdoms were moved; 
He uttered His voice, the earth melted.   
The Lord of hosts is with us; 
The God of Jacob is our refuge. Selah  
Come, behold the works of the Lord, 
Who has made desolations in the earth.   
He makes wars cease to the end of the earth; 
He breaks the bow and cuts the spear in two; 
He burns the chariot in the fire.   
Be still, and know that I am God; 
I will be exalted among the nations, 
I will be exalted in the earth! 
  
Fair winds, 
Buck

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Traveler’s Tip #348
Headed for California next week. In-N-Out Burger. Enough said. 
  
It’s been a nice break at home for the last couple months but now Michelle and I are gearing up for a September/October tour. Watch for us, we might be headed your way. Give us a wave if you see us pass. 
  

Meanwhile, somewhere out past the patio lanterns hanging across my back porch the world continues to lose it’s mind. I guess that cosmic moral compass doesn’t have a glow-in-the-dark needle. And, brother, it looks dark out there. 
  
Some of you have asked if the characters in my novels are based on actual people. Mostly, the answer is no. But today, as quarterbacks sit out the National Anthem, talk-show hosts rant, candidates jockey and shoot cap-guns across the imaginary aisle , and David Duke and Al “The Pal” Sharpton two-step across the grave of MLK, I’m thinking about Mort, my blind, black, fountain of wisdom in The Miracle Man. 
  
I like Mort. And Mort has me thinking about Bill Moore. 
  
I met Bill not long after I moved with my family to Hayden, Idaho on Thanksgiving Day, 2000. I didn’t know it at the time, but back then Hayden was famous (or infamous) for being the home of the Aryan Nation in America. Which makes it ironic that one of the first (and lasting) good friends I met was African American. Funny, looking back I don’t remember thinking about Bill as any particular race or ethnicity. To me he was simply one of the best people I ever knew. He overwhelmed us with goodness.  
  
Bill wasn’t rich. He sold used tires for a living and worked hard every day. He asked for nothing. He’d give you anything. I never heard Bill complain. And as a black man living in Hayden, I imagine he had a lot to complain about. But the thing was, Bill had an agenda. An agenda bigger than himself, bigger than the Aryan Nation, bigger than any human ideology.

An agenda I wish we all had... 
  
You see Bill followed the great example of the Great Example. And as such he loved and served only one race—the human race. This is the reason he could—and did—walk in to a local breakfast joint one morning and shake the hand of Aryan Nation leader, Richard Butler. Bill had the courage and confidence of knowing his Creator. Richard Butler had nothing but the empty blustering bravado of hate. Bill left him speechless. I don’t think the man knew what hit him that day. 
  
Paul the Apostle said: 
There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free man, there is neither male nor female; for you are all one in Christ Jesus. Galatians 3:28 
  
Let me tell the fruit of that one precious black life—a life that mattered. When Bill succumbed to cancer a few years back several hundred gathered to celebrate his life. Old, young, black, white, men, women—for hours they shared stories of how this unassuming man spoke into, encouraged, blessed, and changed their lives. A man with no microphone or political platform. No books or talk shows. No guest spots on Fox News or CNN. Just a seller of used tires. Just love, humility and honor wrapped in human skin. And when real love, humility, and honor are at work—note to Mr. Duke and Mr. Sharpton—they unite, they never divide. 
  
And against odds, Bill Moore was a uniter. He brought people together in the name of Jesus who he loved. This was Bill’s legacy. What will yours be? 
  
Bill’s skin happened to be black. Mine happens to be white. He was my friend. Lord, make me more like Bill. Make me more like You. Make my life matter… 
  
All for now—keep your eyes on the prize, pilgrims. 
  
Peace, 
Buck

Traveler’s Tip #347 

Drive out of the suburbs. Past that big intersection with the Home Depot, Walmart, and Chili’s. You know the one—every town has it these days. Keep going. Don’t turn in to that neighborhood… What’s it called? The Landings, The Falls, The Glades? Something like that. Of course there’s no water or forest or ship to be seen. Keep going. Past the Italian place—fake Tuscan—splotchy drywall and stucco. Past the Mexican place—pretend adobe—the beams in the front are plastic and starting to peel. Past the outlet mall and the Texaco Travel Plaza (Subway right inside) and the MacDonald’s. Keep driving. Drive till you can breathe. Where the streetlights get further apart and then disappear altogether. Drive to where the stars start. 
  
No Interstate for you. Stick to the back roads. The asphalt will eventually give way to gravel. You’re getting closer. Slow down when you see the rusted John Deere tractor on the left and watch for a rutted dirt road that angles off to the right. Take it. After a mile or so, next to the big fir tree, stop and turn off the engine. Listen to it tick. That and the birds waking up are the only sounds you’ll hear out there. 
  
Then, just as the sun starts to rise… you’ll see it. Off to the east, silhouetted against the sky…a barn. 
  
No big deal. There are thousands of them tucked into forgotten pockets of America. If you’ve driven the rural tracks and trails you’ve seen them. This one, it’s not really any different from any others—and that’s what makes it great. You see, each and every one of them hold a thousand stories. 
  
Grab your Stanley thermos (if you don’t have one, you should—green, preferably) and pour yourself a cup. Head for the barn, no one will mind. No need to leave your phone in the car, there isn’t any service anyway. Just open the big, sliding door and step in. It’s quiet in there. You can hear yourself think—how long has it been? Particles of dust laze and swirl in fresh sunbeams—their own little universes and solar systems. Take a breath. Smell the old hay and oil and ghosts. Let the world fade. 
  
As far as the locals are concerned the barn has been there forever. No one remembers the young man with the black hair and thick beard who built it. Ah, but you should have seen him. He worked sunup to sundown and often long into the night for months. Once in a while a neighbor helped, but in those days people weren’t close by and even if they were they had their own work to do. A man got by the best he could. Board by board, the barn was built. Then a house. Eventually a wife came along. And children. And grandchildren. 
  
But the sun rises. Sun sets. Clocks tick. By the fourth generation that first family moved on, give or take a few second cousins. Others came. They always do. And so it went. Season after season. Year after year. 
  
Still, there the barn stood. 
  
Take a look around, but don’t rush. The thing is, here, away from the incessant noise that echoes through the cosmos, you’ve encountered the authentic. This is not Bear Country Jamboree. This is not Cracker Barrel. This is the real thing. That coffee can of rusty nails in the windowsill? It was put there the same week Neil Armstrong walked on the moon. We were a country of dreamers and achievers then…much like the young man that built the place. We were fighters and everyday heroes. Sure, there may have been a few desperados in the woodpile, but for the most part we were loyal, lovers of family—lovers of good. 
  
There used to be an old Emerson radio that sat on the workbench although it was gone by Neil Armstrong’s time. News came in on it, baked fresh and still warm from the glow of tubes. WW1, WW2, the Yankees win the series… Benny Goodman, Lefty Frizzel, Louis Armstrong, Hank Williams...they launched their genius into the airwaves and vibrated the molecules through that 4-inch speaker. 
  
Before the Emerson radio, a horse was born in the back stall. 1903, I think it was. There were high hopes he'd win the Kentucky Derby. Maybe even the whole Triple Crown. Of course, these hopes were held exclusively by a very single-minded eight-year old girl. Her name was Esmeralda Mills. Though tender in years, her faith and love was unwavering as is often the way between girls and horses. Old Baldy never made it twenty miles from the farm let alone all the way to Kentucky, but Esmeralda was riding him the day she met Lonnie Weaver. She and Lonnie were married in the doorway of this very barn a year later. A year after that, Lonnie shipped out for France and the Great War. 
  
See that stream of light coming in down low through the east-facing wall? If you look close, you’ll find a hole and a crack in the boards. That was the result of one of Fergus Weaver’s fastballs. A pitch everyone figured would take him straight to the Majors. But then again there are a lot of holes in a lot of walls of a lot of barns—dreams grow fast and big in these places. Fergus made it as far as the Yakima Bears and played for a few years before coming back to ranch. Not the Yankees by a long shot, but everyone was proud anyway. 
  
I love this one—In 1977, Bob Weaver and his pop, Carl, used the barn every night after work to retrofit a nearly-totaled ’64 Chrysler Imperial for the demolition Derby at the State Fair. The strangest thing—Cal’s hands, which shook badly since his return from Viet Nam, got better over the weeks he and Bob worked. By the time they finished those hands were steady as a rock. His wife swore to everyone who would listen—and even some that wouldn’t—it was a miracle. Carl just chalked it up to time with his son and a quieting of the mind. The boys made it to the derby, but even though they welded pieces of railroad track into the doors and around the radiator the Chrysler was only the second car knocked out of competition. Carl and Bob never seemed to mind. They still talk about that time together, and that loser car as their greatest triumph. I think they’re right. 
  
So many stories. Presidents, wars, feast and famine. Good years, bad years, and in between. Edison, prohibition, Bonnie and Clyde, Steinbeck, Babe Ruth, Al Jolson, Elvis, Martin Luther King Jr.… America. The barn has stood implacable for a long, long time. It is history. It is solidity. Built carefully and firmly on its foundation of stones. It has seen wind and rain, flood, snow and sun. Hopefully it will see more. 
  
You see, somewhere along the road we've stopped building barns, at least not like our fathers built them. Instead we've become demanders of the immediate. Great and skilled builders of flash and mirrors and monuments to the temporary. We are full, drunk, and merry. We are rich and lacking in nothing. We are addicted, lost, and drifting. 
Doing what seems right in our own eyes, we’ve written off heavenly and wise advice about stone foundations and opted for sand because it’s cheaper at to buy Lowe’s. 
  
There are bulldozers on the horizon, folks. Kicking up dust and coming fast. They say the old barns needs to go to make way for the newer and shinier. To quote Joni Mitchell, They paved paradise and put up a parking lot. Such is progress. 
  
Keep your progress. This old dinosaur is buying a Stanley thermos and an Emerson radio. 
  
Take it to the street, Pilgrims. 
  
Fair winds, 
Buck 

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Traveler’s Tip #346  
I’ve stood on a corner in Winslow Arizona but I didn’t see any girl or flatbed Ford. I saw a desert storm roll across the horizon. The sky above Winslow can hold a lot of thunder.  
   
   
I’m out on a three-week tour with Ransom, my son. He's traveling with me and sharing the stage. I miss my wife and daughter terribly, but let me tell you, this will be a trip I’ll never forget. A real, over-the-top thrill. We’ve come a couple thousand miles so far, plenty of time to talk and think. You know what? My son’s a pretty cool guy. I’m also pretty sure he knows more chords than me.  
   
Me and Frankie, laughing and drinking  
Nothing feels better than blood on blood  
Taking turns dancing with Maria  
While the band plays Night of the Johnstown Flood  
                  (Bruce Springsteen – Highway Patrolman)  
   
Blood on blood. Family has been on my mind a lot this trip. I see the way people respond to my son and I when we’re on stage together and their joy makes me happy. It strikes me we humans were created for family. It’s molded into our DNA. We respond to it. We love it. We love to see strong, bonded relationships. We love family. We love LOVE.  
   
The older I get the more I see family as a gift like no other. Husband and wife, parent and child, grand, great-grand, fill in the blank, we all want to belong. We want someone to have our back. That’s what a real family is. That’s what a real family does.  
   
Family is under fire right now, at least in the western culture. We all know it. And I imagine mine is a poster-child for politically incorrect. My kids are adults now but they figured out the difference between girls and boys at around two years old and they can still tell. We're Christians. I don't feel bad about this. I feel blessed and loved. 

I’m supposed to be mad, I guess, and argue with the vocal few. The thing is, I never run into the vocal few. I can only speak to my experience. If I want to be honest, and I do, I need to leave the fort and explore the real world outside the influence of Limbaugh and CNN. The truth is, I’ve meet people. Real people, who work and party and hurt. Who sit beside hospital beds, go to baseball games, and play in bands. These people are not statistics or demographics. They have names and faces. Many are now friends who I love. Some have different politics. Some are a different race, different religion, different orientation than me. For the most part I find the passengers on this ship to be lovely. I know they're loved by God. And I find they love my family, too. Do we always agree? No. Do I speak my mind? Do I share my faith? Yes, my life would be a lie if I didn’t. Do they get mad and argue? Almost never.  
   
Life is a matter of perspective. Look for hate and brother you’ll find it—there’s plenty. But look for love and you’ll find that more. Choose love. If you're Christian, like me, don't choose it as a cop-out on your faith, but because of your faith. Jesus marked time with prostitutes and drunks. With the broken and least of these. With kids and lepers and and tax collectors. He loved them. But who did he call out? The pharisees and the hypocrites. We don’t need to win arguments. We need to give God’s heart. We don’t need people to think or act or vote like us. It’s not about us. It’s about Him. When we eliminate ourselves from the equation, we can invite people home to the Father with pure faith and no agenda. Then they can find the peace the Father gives. Then God wins.       
   
Yeah the vocal few are dangerous. To everyone, not just families like mine. We know it's going to get worse. But they’re motivated by hate, and hate loses, no matter how it’s manipulated or the tables turned. They're good about that but they’re fighting a stacked deck. No matter the legislation. No matter the agenda. To the very end of this earth end men will love women. Women will love men. People will marry. Children will be born. Brothers and sisters will squabble and protect one another. Grandmas and Aunts will tear up at talent shows. Dads will pretend not to tear up at ball games. We’ll fight with each other. We’ll fight for each other. We’ll have each other’s backs. We will love. The family is a brick house. It’s a picture of God’s unity and a gift to men. It will last because He will last. 
   
Ransom and I, we’ll see a few more states and a few more stages. We'll wander backroads America. We’ll meet farmers and cowboys, surfers, music legends and baristas. We’ll pray in restaurants. We’ll smile, make friends, and leave tips. We’ll honor Jesus the best we can. We’ll leave towns churches, truck stops, and Starbuck’s with our hearts full. And in the end, hopefully, we'll have given more than we received.  
   
And soon be home with our wives, sisters and daughters. Nothing feels better than blood on blood.  
   
Fair winds travelers,  
Buck

Traveler’s Tip #345 
Passing through Southern Idaho? You might check-in to the Declo Hotel. Although I have the feeling the shadows that linger there are pretty fresh. And it’s a known fact some have heavier footsteps than others… 
  

Greetings travelers. I’m coming to you live from Starbucks in Reno while our truck is undergoing an operation at the shop on the corner. Praying the mechanic has nimble fingers—we’re playing in Lodi tonight and it’s a bit of a drive. Warning—I’m hopped up on a quad-shot Americano which brings my two-fingered typing speed close to a blistering 25 wpm so hold on to your hats, don’t want them to blow off. 
  
Been in Montana the last couple weekends. It’s been a rural, dirt-road sort of trip, Haggard and Hank the soundtrack in my head. My son and I walked a ghost town Sunday afternoon, although most of the ghosts seemed to have packed and hit the road. Maybe headed for Seattle, or Los Angeles, or someplace else with a Home Depot and a Chili’s—after all, it’s 2016. For what it’s worth, we did hear a one-man band with an umbrella strapped to his head and a kick drum on his back play a passable Secret Agent Man.   
  
Back roads America. The weeds are growing out there, closing in on the small town days and old ways. Still, it makes me smile that—far away from the maddening noise of suburban normality—there are tough and tender people, lined faces and hard hands, that have each other’s back and look you in the eye. They read scripture at the public high school graduation, and send the senior class of nine proud graduates out into the world with solid ground beneath their feet. Out there—cross my heart—mountain men still come down out of the hills once a year, packing everything they own on horses and mules. Librarians and yogurt shop owners smile, keep cans of air freshener handy, and never complain. 
  
Turn me loose, set me free 
Somewhere in the middle of Montana 
                                                       -Merle Haggard (Big City)    
  
Something tells me mountain men are never confused about which bathroom to use. I doubt Merle was either. 
  
And on we go, down the road, my son and I. Three weeks and lots more towns before we see our loved ones again. But it’s good. And we have the privilege of taking music and the infinite love of Jesus to so many people who have forgotten His name. The reunions are happy. 
  
The radio is broken. Sorry Glenn Beck, NPR, and Garrison Keillor. In the silence I’m reminded (again) that God is driving and He isn’t stressed. Not even about truck repairs, bills, or bathrooms. 
  
So be encouraged, pilgrims, there is a place, if you care to find it, where you can go to church on Sunday morning, and still get the Cowboy Special at Trixi’s Bar even though it’s after noon and they’ve stopped serving breakfast. 
  
Life is good. 
  
Fair winds, 
  
Buck 

Traveler’s Tip #344 
Somehow Michelle and I missed winter this year. And somehow…that’s okay. 
  
  
“Lord I believe. Help my unbelief!” 
Remember that guy? If I believed in reincarnation, which I don’t, then I think could have been him in a past life. I stood on stage a few days ago and half-joked that the problem with living on faith is that it takes so much stinking faith (half–joked being the operative word). Sometimes, pilgrims, you just get tired. Sometimes your body hurts. Sometimes you feel like if you have to spend one more minute in the car you’re going to pound your head against the steering wheel… 
  
But then there’s today. Night has passed and the sun is bright. I’m on the road in California, sitting under a tree while a squirrel the size of a Shetland pony munches on an orange and checks me over with sugar-glazed eyes. My only immediate problem is that the on food the patio table in front of me is healthy Trader Joe’s and not an In-N-Out burger. Which—come to think of it—might be a decidedly serious issue. Ah…first world problems. But that’s another blog… 
  
Yes, all things are new. 
  
You see, yesterday morning I prayed. 
  
And last night God answered. 
  
            “Why are you surprised?” He says. 
  
            “I’m not surprised. I’m blown away.” I sense that He’s pleased by this. 
  
Travelers, life hurts. But when we know Him even though it hurts, it’s always good. Some of you are reading this from your mountaintop. Some from the valley dark. Believe me, I know every foot of the road, both places. If I can give you anything today, please hear this. You are loved and the pain—as hard as it is—is only for a season. In it He has purpose, and it’s always for our good.    
  
Then there are those of you reading this who don’t believe at all. I know your names. But more importantly, so does He. And, friends, your doubt has no bearing on His existence. Nor His goodness. He loves you deeply. So do I! 
  
Me? At times I’m a wanderer. I’m a struggler, a sinner, and a wrestler of God. But tell me He doesn’t exist? He doesn’t care? You might as well say that water isn’t wet and the ground beneath my feet isn’t solid. Tell me not to breathe in and out. You see, I know Him well. And, more importantly, He knows me.   
  
Lord, thank you. I believe. Forgive my unbelief. 
  
Press on Pilgrims, we’re in this together, 
  
Buck 

Traveler’s Tip #343 
Hang in there, amigos. The road’s a little rough but the end of the story is going to be awesome.  
   
   
It’s Super Tuesday today and here’s the view from my neck of the woods. In one corner, a well-meaning guy who thinks it would be a good idea for a socialist to lead a constitutional republic (he might consider China or Finland, he’d have a better chance—newsflash, the deal’s rigged Bern) along with a far-left-middle-right-leaning-liberal-conservative(ish) queen-of-the-double-negative-lady who is better and smarter than the rest of us and changes positions/accents daily depending on the crowd (brief pause for cackle). In the other corner (you thought I was going to let them off?) a room full of whining third-graders on substitute teacher day fighting over the marbles (I know you are but what am I? Your mom should show her tax returns…)   
   
Honestly, I’m feeling a bit removed from it all. Like watching a car wreck on TV. I know it’s happening somewhere but I’m separated from it by plasma, wires, and satellites. And besides, I need to go microwave my coffee.  
   
Now you regular readers of my sporadic ponderings (there has to be an oxymoron in there somewhere) know I usually don’t climb down into the political soup, but bear with me. This landscape of Hanna Barbera candidates is just way too tempting.  
   
The flat-screen. Warm, fuzzy, Medialand—the alternate reality. Kind of like Willy Wonka’s joint, filled with Oompa Loompas who’s voices have been marginalized, sound-bited, and watered down in the cotton candy of politically-correct elitism and exclusiveness. Promise them the moon in a box, they buy it every four years—sucker born every minute. Plus they’re orange and weird-looking (wait, it might have been one of the third-graders that said that). Yup, in Medialand, common sense has packed its saddlebags and headed for the hills with The Duke and Honest Abe. Back here in the scared-new-world of common senselessness the shell game continues—man, that lady has fast hands!  
   
So, remember, here in Medialand the moral of the story is that black lives matter, unless you’re actually an African and un-taxable (or a cop). Oh yeah, and Arab Christians being wiped out by the hundreds of thousands are just pesky Christians, after all, who’s going to miss them? Now where did I put my prayer rug? And speaking of Jesus… wait, actually, don’t because exercising your religious freedom infringes on religious freedom or something else collegiate-sounding like that, and of course we need to exclude to be inclusive…. What? Wait, did you just pray? Stop that… now go hug an atheist.  
   
Back in real America, next Tuesday is even more super. Michelle and I are headed back out on the road where real people—you guys—work hard, love, and care. We’ll take a few songs and the love of Jesus to those we meet along the way. Sorry kids, fair warning—you might want to run for your safe place.  
   
So, God, could we please have John Wayne back? Or anyone else that can take a punch and come back swinging? We’re a short on heroes around here.…amen      
   
Now get out there and vote, you taxable units.  
   
   
Fair winds,  
Buck

Traveler’s Tip #342
If you happen to pass Calvary Chapel Cypress in the Los Angeles area, look up Maria. Let her take your picture. Yes, it’ll take her 20 minutes to figure the camera out but her unfiltered joy will make your day… 

Hello from sunny California! Michelle and I are currently getting ready to wrap up a five-week tour and get a little home time before hitting the road again. It’s been such a good trip. NM, TX, AZ, CA…so many wonderful people everywhere we go. 
  
One current theme I’ve been hearing out here is—What happened to the blogs? So I’m feeling both convicted and blessed. The truth is, life and travel have just been busy. But I’m going to do my best! It’s good to be missed, my friends. 
  
I was saddened today to read a post from a non-Christian friend about the hate-filled rhetoric she perceives as coming from the Christian ghetto. A twist of a crafty devil, if you ask me. I meet believers around the country, and let me tell you—a Spirit-filled Christian, a real follower of Jesus, is a miraculous thing. The direct target of the last acceptable form of discrimination in America and yet the first to stand for the down-trodden and serve others. Kicked, ridiculed, and told to keep his mouth shut, yet offering a cup of cold water to his enemies. Christians are being slaughtered by the tens-of-thousands around the world yet praying for their executioners with their dying breath. Personally, I’m tired and saddened by the constant vilifying. 
  
Yes, there is the odd “Christian” duck that doesn’t operate in the love of the One who gives breath. But their agenda has nothing to do with Jesus. More often than not it has to do with building their own kingdom—motivated by pride, and believing their own press—send the cash, baby, amen… 
  
Yesterday morning I stood on stage tuning up and watched people from all different walks-of-life, race, and social status organically praying for each and bearing one another’s burdens. With such sincere hearts! With pure joy! That’s the Jesus I know. That’s the Father who walks with me every day. I couldn’t live without Him. 
  
So, to those out there hijacking Christ’s name and arguing just to be right—stop. Nobody ever browbeat or out-debated anyone into the arms of Jesus. And to my non-Christian friends (I know you’re reading)—I love you dearly. I’m sorry for the misconceptions you’ve been fed by a few knuckleheads.  When it comes to casting stones none of us have a leg to stand on so my hands are empty. But, I believe with all my heart that our Father misses you. You were created by and for Him. He has good things for you. Adventures our tiny imaginations can’t even begin to fathom. Both in this world, and the next. I want to live them with you. There is a better way, a road less traveled. 
  
This life is but a breath but lets breathe it together. Men will let you down, Jesus never will. 
  
Fair winds all you astronauts, 
  
Buck