Dr. Jim Fallon, 62 years old, is a neuroscientist who studies the biological basis of human behavior at the University of California, Irvine. I was able to catch him on the third installment of ABC’s four-part documentary called Secrets of Your Mind. Jim has studied the brains of more than 70 murderers on behalf of psychiatric clinics or criminal defense lawyers. Three years ago, as part of a personal project to assess his family’s risk of developing Alzheimer’s disease, Dr. Fallon collected brain scans and DNA samples from himself and seven relatives. He discovered on his own brain scan the tell-tale evidence that he himself had the potential to be a killer.

Studies show the frontal lobe of a “normal” brain is highly active and that of a serial killer or psychopath is somewhat inactive. It’s speculated that this part of the brain is where our conscience and feelings of remorse originate. Dr. Fallon’s previous research on murderers had suggested that many killers show distinctive patterns in these brain areas. He wasn’t aware that his father’s lineage was littered with murderers–famous ones like Thomas Cornell, hanged in 1673 for murdering his mother and Lizzie Borden of Fall River, Mass., who in 1892, was accused and then controversially acquitted of killing her father and stepmother with an ax.

If any one of us looks deep into our being, we will find lurking there a connection that ties humanity together like a dark thread: sin. Our sinful heritage, like a murky river, flows through each generation, leaving it’s evidence on every heart. There are some that deny it’s presence saying that humanity is basically good. The Bible says in Jeremiah 17:9, “The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure. Who can understand it?” Again, in Matthew 15:19, “For out of the heart come evil thoughts, murder, adultery, sexual immorality, theft, false testimony, slander.”

Dr. Fallon’s brain scan may show the potential to be a killer. But he concluded that, being a caring and non-violent person, his loving upbringing was able to thwart the effects in his own life. I still believe that we are all born with the same dark affliction that our father, Adam, left us. It is at the core of the redemption story. We can be changed, cleansed and rejuvenated to live as God originally intended. It is not through a change in behavior or a good upbringing, but is only through the redemptive power of Jesus Christ:

²²This righteousness from God comes through faith in Jesus Christ to all who believe. There is no difference, ²³for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, ²⁴and are justified freely by his grace through the redemption that came by Christ Jesus. ²⁵God presented him as a sacrifice of atonement,^[a] through faith in his blood. He did this to demonstrate his justice, because in his forbearance he had left the sins committed beforehand unpunished— ²⁶he did it to demonstrate his justice at the present time, so as to be just and the one who justifies those who have faith in Jesus.” Romans 3:22-25

The Fabulous Superlatives: it’s amusingly redundant and a great name for a band. Marty Stuart says he got it from a flower shop here in Nashville. But the band isn’t quite the over-exaggeration (;-D) that the name implies–they are probably the greatest assemblage of pickers and singers within any band hailing from the Music City. They just released a new record this past Tuesday called Ghost Train: The Studio B Sessions. I think it’s the best record to come out of country music in a long time.

Marty Stuart, much like Ricky Skaggs, Emmylou Harris and Vince Gill, keeps reinventing himself and offers fresh installments of his talent every couple of years. In this day and age of American Idol, with half-baked offerings of producer-driven projects, the industry is trying to duplicate past success so much that the music begins to sound inbred. Stuart has brought fine songwriting together with stellar musicianship and old-fashioned styling in the vein of Haggard, Buck Owens, and other storytellers like Johnny Cash and Jimmy Rogers. The production even incorporates the smooth RCA Victor, mid-60′s sound with his famous wife Connie Smith on the duet, I Run To You. There are some incredible dueling guitar solos on the record between Stuart and his virtuosic side-kick, “Cousin” Kenny Vaughan. The harmony supporting Marty’s lead vocal comes from bassist Paul Martin and Nashville veteran/drummer Harry Stinson.

After being branded by his “hillbilly rock” hits of the 90′s, Marty went back to his roots in 2002 and started over. He re-visited his grandfather’s farm that he helped clear of overgrowth a decade earlier. Recalling the epiphany, Stuart says, “The air could pass through the trees again, and everything came back to life. You could see my Grandpa’s signature on the land, the way he terraced his land. Then, when I was down there again last year (2002), something really incredible occurred. The same thing happened inside me. It had come time to clear out everything inside myself and plant a new crop.”

Stuart and his Fabulous Superlatives have a great show on the RFD-TV network which can be seen on Saturday nights at 8PM, Eastern time (new season to air soon). I think it’s a fantastic show with top-notch guests even with the lacking video production. I look forward to seeing the boys kicking it again in the fall.

Marty Stuart is a true gem. He is helping to keep the glorious sounds of traditional country alive. God bless him for it. And by the way, look for my new CD on Inbred records with my new group, The Dangling Participles. Just kidding!

I don’t know if it’s true, but I heard that Hitler’s violin from his art school days was found in a fiddle shop in North Carolina a few years ago. The story is fascinating. I have always been intrigued with historical artifacts. The item itself may be unimpressive but it’s provenance is obviously what creates the value.

When I was a kid my dad had a friend who was a buddy to Cliff Edwards, the voice for the character of Jiminy Cricket through the 1960s. On the wall of our family friend’s living room hung the ukulele once owned and played by Mr. Edwards. Every time we visited I went straight for Jiminy Cricket’s “little guitar.” I must admit, I felt important just beholding it–connecting me in some way to Jiminy, Disney, and Pinocchio.

When we acquire things of historical significance, and display them proudly, we are basking in the reflective glory of it’s past owner. There is something empowering about it. I watched a documentary this week about the auctioning of items from the entire Star Trek TV and movie franchise. People were bidding tens of thousands of dollars to snag a prop or a piece of clothing worn by an actor. In one case, the Ressikan flute, prized by Patrick Stewart’s character in The Next Generation, sold for over $40,000. Stewart later commented with laughter, “It doesn’t play; it’s not a real flute.”

I could poke fun at the ridiculous purchase. But I am holding tight to my glass guitar slide once owned by Duane Allman from the Allman Brothers Band. There’s something cool about holding an iconic item the guitar legend used at one time. I really don’t think it will make me play any better, though.

We visited Ikea in Costa Mesa while spending time with family in southern California this week. Brenda and I experienced our first store last year in Atlanta. Once you go, you are hooked. Suffice it to say, it is Disneyland for homeowners. I even overheard a guy say to his friend that Ikea was his third home, next to Home Depot. I understand.

The Scandinavian functionality is refreshing. Sometimes American style is %75 fluff and and %25 function. The attention to simple lines and solid colors have a calming affect. The use of wood is also attractive when the warm, earthy paint choices, accented by white, fill almost every design. As we visited the showroom, we followed the meandering walkway, taking in each display,  pilfering through movie-set models, all the while feeling like we were invading someone’s personal space. The doll house designs are so well constructed that if you wanted to fool your family and friends into thinking you live in a Swiss chalet, you can dress the kids in sweaters and choose your favorite living room design, set up the camera and, voila (wallah),  there’s your Christmas card.

Most of the designs are compact. There is so little wasted space that it seems you are walking in a travel trailer. Americans love their huge living spaces as opposed to the Europeans who are happy to make a go at raising their families in apartment-sized offerings. I guess the plus side of Europe is that you have preset limits. In the US, we experience urban sprawl–where our communities are spread out with no discipline. Many US households experience, what I call, domestic sprawl. We collect so much junk, our huge homes have become crowded. Ikea has come to America’s rescue.

I am enamored with Ikea. I would love to live in one of their little dream homes. It would be a feat to unload all of our extra stuff to be able to fit into one of those boxes. Still, I kind of like stretching out with elbow room. Isn’t that what America is about? Everything is BIG here. Until I am forced to live in stacked housing like those poor folks in Tokyo, I’m gonna enjoy my big, fat American dream home.

All my life I dreamed of traveling. When we would drop grandma off at the airport to go back to San Jose after her visits in the 60s, the large PSA jets came into view and I always got excited. One day, I said to myself, I am gonna be the one leaving! The caustic smell of spent diesel fuel emanating from curbside buses still reminds me of those days at LAX.

My dreams of travel were realized when I started to play music professionally. My constant travel buddy, and nuisance, has been a guitar. I have always gotten glaring looks of disapproval from distrusting flight attendants who questioned (still do) whether or not the case would fit in an overhead bin. On commuter flights, I realized my friend would have to ride with the baggage since small planes have little or no on-board stowage space. I make a point to ask them to place the guitar on top of the pile so she won’t get crushed. The airline person usually obliges, and most of the time, follows through on my special request.

Getting on board a larger plane, when the case can fit in an overhead compartment, is a nerve-racking experience for me. I get itchy because I know a newbie flight attendant, pink-cheeked and fresh from training, is going to spot me and thumb through her little rule book only to inform me that I must check the case at the gate. The problem is that the evil baggage loaders on the large planes work under the cover of darkness (as opposed to the commuter–where you can watch them load) and they carelessly toss your precious possession into the hull like a discarded trash bag. My acoustic guitars cost around $2500 a shot…they don’t give a rip.

Like spotting a newbie attendant, it’s easy to spot an old pro. She’s the one smoking a cigarette, with lipstick ajar and hair disheveled, leaning against the galley wall with a “let’s get this over with” look on her face. She’s the one I try to connect glances with. Old Pro knows the book but tossed it out years ago because it was written by goons who have never flown a day in their lives. She usually leads me to a coat closet or to an empty bin where I place my guitar with room to spare. She winks, smacks her chewing gum, and waddles back to watch the newbie do all the work.

My trepidation subsides until I get back on another plane to return home. The sweet thing about my job is that it involves guitars. I have no reason to complain.

The secret to Brenda and I being married for 25 years is directly related to the fact that she is absolutely gorgeous and I have tons of money…No, really, the actual thing that keeps us together, besides God’s grace and Brenda’s patience, is that we accept one another’s quirky habits. I have many, she only has one or two.

The one similar quirk we share relates to time. Hers is general–mine is specific. Brenda loves calendars and I love clocks and wrist watches. Every area in our home where Brenda presides (she allows me to keep an office/studio upstairs), there is an accompanying calender. Some are plain and functional, others are whimsical and full of color and witty statements. She is very organized and likes to have things laid out in order–in advance. I respectfully assume that it’s her way of enjoying a bit of stability and order, quelling unexpected life-interruptions. This doesn’t contradict the fact that she is a woman of faith, though. She’s game when God (and life) throws a curve. She swings and usually knocks the ball out of the park!

My infatuation with time pieces come from a less noble place. They just look cool to me. I like the atomic variety which pick up radio signals from a far-away antennae in Colorado and sets their time automatically at 2 in the morning–right to the exact second. My bedside alarm clock is atomic and has saved me a time or two when I forgot to spring forward or fall back before hitting the pillow. I also love watches because they are one of the only accessories that dudes can get away with collecting and not being considered metro-sexual.

If watches, clocks and calendars are an attempt to bring control into our lives, we haven’t been very successful. Still, life hurls itself upon us and we must trust God for the outcome, not our schemes or plans. It is my duty as a Christ-follower to be a responsible citizen in His kingdom–making good, sound choices for His glory on a daily basis. All things considered, time has been good to us.

Brenda is certainly gorgeous. Me, I am happy to live off the crumbs that fall from her table . She makes me look good and brings great blessing to my life and that of her family and friends. As we turn another calendar page and witness the hand of time reach into another day, month and season, the next 25 years of our quirkiness looks promising. Whatever comes our way, I know the ride is gonna continue to be well planned…and on time.

An old friend from Mobile used to tell me, “Whatever can be shaken, will be shaken.” That which is not fastened down will blow away when the wind gets going . The same is true for our lives–whatever can be tested, will be tested.

As I said in an earlier blog, God is a proponent of resistance training. He uses the ups and downs of life to train us toward godliness. The muscles we build through the life-struggles we all experience create endurance that will help us stay “in the game” longer.

Our pastor started a three-week series Sunday entitled, Unwavering. The scripture that headed the outline was Hebrews 12:26-29:

At that time his voice shook the earth, but now he has promised, “Once more I will shake not only the earth but also the heavens.” The words “once more” indicate the removing of what can be shaken—that is, created things—so that what cannot be shaken may remain. Therefore, since we are receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken, let us be thankful, and so worship God acceptably with reverence and awe, for our “God is a consuming fire.”

God has constructed a kingdom that cannot be shaken. Therefore, as it’s citizens, we must be a sturdy, stalwart people. There ain’t no weaklings allowed! So, God permits challenges to enter our lives so that we might attain a steadfast spirit (Psalm 51:10). His holy fire burns away the chaff in our lives– the fluff–so that what is left is eternal.

Like you, I hate discomfort. I really need to hit the treadmill tonight before bed so that I can keep on the right track with regard to my health and fitness. I enjoy it when people notice that I have lost weight –35 pounds, to be exact! The result of hard work has become my reward. The results also help me  to keep going. In the same way, God wants us to keep going, even when it seems we can’t take another step. He promises that it will all pay off in the end.

Encourage the exhausted, and strengthen the feeble. Say to those with anxious heart, “Take courage, fear not. Behold, your God will come with vengeance; The recompense of God will come, But He will save you.” Isaiah 35:3-4

Why am in such a hurry? Brenda looks at me often with that “you are out of control” look that only she can give me. I admit it, I don’t like to wait. I know it’s ultimately a spiritual problem. At the least, my impatience is a personal flaw–unfinished business I revisit, and fail to resolve, several times a day.

I get nervous when I drive up to a restaurant and there is a line of people waiting to get in. I hate to get in the car without a contingency plan as to where I am going and how efficiently I can get from point A to B with the least amount of wasted time and miles. As I look at it objectively, my desire to be expeditious seems ridiculous. Who really cares? Others see it as controlling. When I am looking at it through my own eyes, it seems the best way to get things done.

My flaws are glaring. I make no excuses. The Bible touts patience as virtue. Jesus was so patient that, even as insults were hurled at Him, he responded with wisdom. His lack of response was the ultimate proof of His character. Pastor Rick Warren said in a recent Tweet, “…every time you refuse to retaliate at those who make fun of you, and remain silent as Jesus did, you grow in power-Matthew 27:14.”

Maintaining a calm interior, enjoying life at a slower pace, and learning to respond to the world with a patient, Godly love, is something I aspire to attain. Brenda is my hero. She is the greatest teacher of patience I know. She isn’t in a hurry–trusting she’ll get to her destination in due time. As she’s enjoys the ride, I’m wondering if there will be enough parking when we get there…God help me!

My home is the most valued possession I have besides our precious photos and priceless family heirlooms. I do love my guitars, amps and studio gear, but you can’t sleep inside of a guitar case or keep food cold in a speaker cabinet. Our biggest monthly outflow of money is toward the mortgage. As my father-in-law says, a car that’s filled with family is carrying precious cargo. Our home is the same: it holds my loved ones. It is a protective shell that shelters my family from weather and creates a needed, private barrier from the world where we can retreat. Brenda and I take great measures in caring for our home because the investment is so immense. It’s a high priority in our lives.

You can tell a lot about a person by how they live. I think it’s true that the way a home is maintained testifies to the condition of the owner’s life. A humble dwelling that is well kept shows a heart that is in order. Even a mansion that is disorganized and disheveled reflects the inner life of it’s keeper. The size, expense, or location of the home is immaterial. Sometimes the opposite is true–we hide disarray with a mega-clean exterior, trying to avert the eye of the beholder from the true lack of inner cleanness. This idea may sound over-wrought, but I believe it.

When I was traveling, I lived in hotels, buses, cars and vans. Brenda and I have lived in trailers, apartments, rental houses, and even stayed with friends for a while as our home was being built. There is nothing more gratifying than owning your own home. It is amazing how we care for the things that we work hard to acquire. Free stuff doesn’t generate the same pride. I am also amazed how people let their homes pile up with junk, inside and out–the front yard looking like the Munster’s at 1313 Mockingbird Lane. I am not saying that everyone has a perfect canvas from which to paint a storybook castle. Some folks will never own their own home, by choice or otherwise. But if you nurture what you have, you are living the good life. Brenda was talking to a gentleman the other day who lives in an enviable part of Nashville. He said that his home looked like a movie set on the outside but was full of problems on the inside. What a perfect analogy of many people’s lives.

The news came yesterday morning that a family from our church lost their home in a fire. I can’t imagine what they must be going through right now. We will pray and help to establish a place for them to live while they rebuild their home and lives. Even as we hold tightly to the things we value on earth, they can be snatched away in a second. In reality, the home we build is made of people, not wood, nails, brick or drywall. I am grateful for this little bit of heaven that God has entrusted to us here in Spring Hill– thank you, Lord, for my home.

Back in the summer of 1976 gas prices hovered around 60 cents per gallon, the Bicentennial inundated the media, and I got my first car for my 16th birthday. My grandma took me to the DMV to take the driving test on July 10th. After the second try, and a day later, I walked out of there waving my ticket to freedom. It is a hallowed rite of passage for teenagers to finally break from the nest and wander the dangerous streets of the city, running errands for nerve-racked parents who are waiting at home for the engine rumble in the driveway to signal a safe return. Certainly a blissful time for the 16 year old, but one of trepidation for the parent.

I was fortunate. My folks found a car for $600 (lots of dough for my parents to fork out to their kid) and it was sitting in my driveway a few weeks before my birthday. Until I became a legal driver, I spent hours sitting silently at the wheel of that monstrosity–a 1965 Dodge Polara. I guess my parents felt I was more safe in the event of an accident because the old girl was so solid. The Dodge was extremely long–you could be going 55 mph, hit a pothole, and count to 10 before the back wheels would bump! I mean, it was looooong–a gas hog, too! She was light brown with near-perfect upholstery. The owner before me probably was an old lady who only drove it to church on Sundays. As a physical specimen, the Dodge was mint. We had to do a few minor repairs on the engine, but she was ready to rock the highway when I got my license.

I was financially responsible for the insurance, gas and upkeep. So, with my job at the animal clinic, after expenses, my first priority was to install a cassette player. There was no place to fit my new stereo into the ancient dash configuration, so I left it sitting open, wires and all, on the hump between the driver and passenger seats. The rear speakers seemed like a mile away as the music reflected off the glass from the rear deck. I dreamed of how cool I’d look driving into the Buena Park High School student parking lot–stereo blaring and friends in tow. It was heaven. I was ready to take Fullerton by storm!.

At one point, I asked a girl on a date. I picked her up and we had a picnic in a park near her home. I felt like a million bucks. When I drove my date through her neighborhood on the way home, she slumped down into the spacious area in front of the passenger seat. I thought she had fallen, but actually she was hiding and didn’t want her friends to see her in this big, old car. I had never thought of my car as embarrassing–until then I was proud. But now I was self-conscious. In an instant, I looked at my new ride as a land yacht. It was certainly gigantic, but it now seemed hideous. I wanted to get out and just walk away. It was a moment that intensified my lack of self confidence. These times can be devastating. I felt like I was wearing the coat of many colors Dolly Parton sang about. I was proud of it until someone’s opinion convinced me otherwise.

Over the next few months I forgot and left the windows open too many times as the car sat in the driveway over night. Rain soaked the pristine interior causing the seat fabric to eventually disintegrate. But still, she was my rolling freedom train. When I got a job at a paper box factory the next year, I drove all over Los Angeles making deliveries, dodging oncoming cars, curbs, fire hydrants, and pedestrians, nervously navigating the mysteries of the big, forbidden city. The Polara was a friend to me and gave me my first sense of adventure, ownership and responsibility. It helped me learn to care for an object of value. That car got me through high school and into my first stab at college. I left home in January of 1980 to make a new home on the road as a musician. By that time I think the car had been sold. Looking back, she was abused. But it was a time of learning–of tasting the fruit of hard work. I tend to prefer smaller cars, mostly because of the savings in fuel expense. But I will always cherish my land yacht and those magical times that summer.

Just like my beloved 1965 Dodge Polara–except mine was brown.