On Sunday, April 11th, I was riding home from church with Rob, my Nashville host.
He spotted a black Tesla at the entry to Jack White’s estate in Brentwood, an arm extending from the driver’s side, punching a code into a security gate.
It had to be Mr. White, right? Sure, why not. Weirder things have happened to me in that town.1
Rob knew I enjoyed bicycling, so early on in my visit, he said, “Hey, Tom, come out to the garage. I have a bike just for you. I bet you’ll love it.”
And he was right. I got up on my horse, a single speed, hybrid Trek, and headed into town from Creve Hall, his neighborhood. I pedaled past Taylor’s Swift’s property, the one clad in blacked-out chain link fence. She did not return my wave. 😢
I motored around Lipscomb University, where Steve Taylor heads up the film department, and ended up at my destination, Jack White’s Third Man Records.
His store wasn’t even open, duh, I had forgotten about COVID which is easy to do in a city where the population was equally brushing it off and bracing for it. Tourists were nowhere to be seen.
There ‘twas I spoke with the only other bicyclist I encountered: A young, tattooed, wiry, mustachioed Jimmie John’s delivery guy.
Even he gave me an askance look, much like the thousands of drivers I encountered, but with a barely visible nod of respect.
“Nashville isn’t the safest place for bikes.”
I retorted, “Oh, yeah, I found that out!” with the excitement of a home-schooler at The Parthenon.
I mentioned Steve Taylor earlier (not to be confused with the swifter Taylor) to get the attention of his fans.
If you’re not a fan of Steve, just know this: He is a lifelong hero of mine, not a clone at all, does not have an extensive Chaggall collection though his wife is renowned painter, was conjectured to have drifted in a lifeboat, is a fan of the famous East Nashville Tuna Meltdown, did not write Blue Like Jazz (though he’s been accused), and he’s the kind of guy to take a shine to breakfast.
Add to those accolades, Steve is a powerful song writer, decently famous 80’s and 90’s rock band leader from within the alternative Christian scene, producer of some very cool acts,2 film director,3 ongoing recording artist, respected man of integrity, family guy, churchman, and humorist.
My brush with Steve began back in 1995. We were in Music City to celebrate our 10th anniversary, take in some live music, and maybe sneak a glimpse of Phil Keaggy’s fingers or maybe even Charlie Peacock’s house. We were fans, come on!
A Taylor sighting did ensue.
While having coffee at Fido in Hillsboro Village, we saw Steve outside of The Pancake Pantry down the street (A Nashville insider had tipped us off).
He hugged a friend, then lowered himself into a Honda Civic and took off, proving to us beyond a doubt that Steve Taylor was in fact…lanky.
Over the years, I revisited his music, followed his film career, and force-fed his CD Squint into all of our five kids.
In 2012 on a Blue Like Jazz premiere tour, Becky and I finally met him. We got our photo taken with him, squinting. This was unintentional, at least on our part.
A young woman in a carrot suit also joined the shoot. She turned out to be our now-friend Ellen who, as far as I know, doesn’t go out in public as a garden vegetable anymore.
In 2016 we had the pleasure of hosting Steve Taylor at The Row House Forum. I spent a day following him around town and with college students, getting snippets of conversation in as he fielded greetings from fans.
Undergrads were largely numb to his accomplishments, but he did get a big surge of nervous laughter at an assembly when he played a clip from the song Shine which he wrote and the Newsboys recorded. That’s youth group AM gold.
I finally had the chance to tell him what his work meant to me as a Christian communicator who isn’t afraid of a little darkness, absurdity, and satire. It was an honor to present him to Lancaster through a Q&A format focusing on his wild ride as an artist with integrity in a city full of flim-flam.
I titled the talk, “The Art of Courage” because, of all his contributions, it is that virtue that has inspired me to take risks, create fearlessly, and love hilariously.
I had asked him about Barista Parlor, one of the coolest-looking joints on the planet, at least by Instagram lights. He was effulgent: “Oh, yeah, the one in the Gulch or East Nashville?” Yes?
He said, “Look me up when you’re back in town, and we’ll have coffee.”
You got ‘er, Steve. Tom has a good memory.
In 2017 I had the audacity to text him. He’s a busy guy, so the response was weirdly surprising.
And thence it was that after a panel discussion at the Q Ideas conference, Becky and I walked out of the convention center with him. Once he found his car in the parking garage, he drove us over to The Gulch to hipster haven where a nice little coffee time will set you back $18.00.
Having moved up in the world through years of professional achievements and high-powered industry connections, Steve was now driving a ten year old Accord. That’s a Honda, by the way, and no Civic.
We had a delightful time, and he proved to be the genuine article: A Christian, full of life, and very much interested in his audience, in this case being the two of us.
Returning soon, we plan to meet up again, and if we do, I’ll report on his car. I’m gunning for a Honda Passport (the new one, not the old Isuzu version).
In 2018, Wheeler called to say he was gathering a small group from Friends of L’Abri Nashville to host David Brooks for lunch at pastor Scott Saul’s house.
THE David Brooks of The New York Times and another of my living heroes.
Scott is a seminary colleague and someone I don’t mind being around, so I said, “Of course!”
Next thing I know I’m sitting fretfully on a 3-man sofa with Anne Snyder4 next to me and her husband David Brooks next to her.
To thank David for joining the small lunch (of about 25 people!), Rob hands him a book published by Ned Bustard and The Rabbit Room.
And I wanted to shout out, “Hey, my good friend in Lancaster illustrated that book!” But in this rare case, I played it cool, chili bowl suspended between my thighs and iced tea between my shoes.
Across from me, Rob’s brother was attempting the same high wire act and sitting next to the governor of Tennessee who was adroitly spooning in his chili with his tie flung back over his bright white dress shirt.
These rare opportunities to meet folks I admire is pure hilarity to me. I’m grateful. Most of my life is glorious mundanity: Frisbee with my dog, washing dishes, and playing a shell game with streams of cash. All of it, pure gift.
Later that night, I found myself listening to Brooks deliver a humble and stirring call to character in front of a highfalutin audience at Montgomery Bell Academy, flanked by Steve Taylor and Rob Wheeler.5
A familiar body walked past me to greet David before his talk, and I knew in an instant it was one of the many students we had worked with in the 90’s at Bucknell University: Dr. Marty Makary.
A huge hug ensued as did a hearty breakfast and catching up, with a promise to speak at The Row House which in due time was fulfilled.
I orchestrated none of this, which is why I laugh at the sublimity of these connections. I take these inspiring moments as confirmations that I’m on a good path and in great company.
This is what spiritual guides have been saying for millennia:
Have eyes to see, ears to hear, be still and know, hear O’ Israel, behold.
I can’t imagine the serendipities that await us next week in Nashville.
If I’m not rocketing all over ‘tarnation in Rob’s 5 Series BMW, I’ll be tooling around on my 11 speed Univega Premio gravel bike.
I plan to take my feet off the pedals and sing “Raindrops are fallin’ on my head…” like those daring lovers in Butch Cassidy And The Sundance Kid, except it’s just me and my blue eyes and not Paul Newman’s, and I’m not pedaling that pretty lady around whom I bet you think is Jane Fonda, as I did, but totally isn’t.6
If you’re in the area, come see us. Here’s where to find us.
Michael W. Smith, the forever friend, leaned on a countertop and looked out over his Rocket Town dance club with those cobalt blue eyes. Directly behind his left shoulder hung a poster that could’ve been a mirror image except that both Michaels were staring the same direction, toward us. I doubt he was looking at Becky and me. We were in Nashville for our 10th anniversary. I wanted to see this joint, maybe even dance, but we both felt 30-something and awkwardly departed. This actually happened.
Sixpence None The Richer, Chevelle, L.A. Symphony, Newsboys, and if I’m missing something someone will let me know.
Blue Like Jazz being his noteworthy adaptation of Donald Miller’s influential book.
I’m bummed to miss Anne’s Row House Forum on Sept 17th in Lancaster, but it’s not too late for you to get tickets! (I’ll be speaking at my alma mater, Covenant Seminary in St. Louis on that day).
Earlier that day, Steve lamented that he didn’t have tickets to hear Brooks, and I said, hey, they don’t call him Rob Wheeler-n-Dealer for nuthin.’ We got him in.
Her name was Katherine Ross. I IMDB-ed that for you just to be sure.
Riveting commentary! Stream of consciousness totally works for you, Major Tom… can’t wait for the next installment😎