I could (should?) post a blog about playing at X-Fest with Ilia, House of Heroes, and Disciple...yes, it was cool and yes, I'd love to do it again. I met some of the coolest people ever and Texas will always have a special place in my heart. But I cannot write about that. I know I am about to write a short novel, so sit down and relax.
Tonight, I had dinner with my mom and sister. I was recapping this weekend and telling my mom how much fun I had. Somehow, the conversation segued in to how it is in my personality to fix things. Given enough time, I can fix anything. Guitars, cars, lawn mowers, broken furniture, cracked iPhone screens, leaky roofs...everything. I may have to refer to Google, YouTube, my friends who are smarter than I am, and occasionally, even a manual. But, I will fix whatever I start working on.
This was not my natural instinct as a child. I was careless, forgetful, destructive, and lazy. The most distinct impression on my character was left by my Grandpa, Bill Bowen. He was the most patient, methodical, knowledgable, and kind man that ever lived on this planet.
I was none of those things at 13 years old when I moved to Florida and lived with him until he passed away. In the 6 or 7 years I lived with him, he took this angry kid who just wanted to play guitar, and showed me how to be a man. He did not tell me how to be a man. He lived it. Every second of every day.
My Grandpa quietly followed God, served and loved his family, fixed anything that could be fixed, worked until the morning he collapsed from a stroke, and provided me with far more than food, shelter, and knowledge. He showed me how to live rightly with myself and those around me. He was honest to a fault and his character was as straight as a ruler.
As a former bus mechanic, he pounded into my head how simple maintenance and understanding the machine I was using would make sure I got a lot of life out of it. Are my tools as spotless as his? Not a chance. That would be impossible. He had 50+ year old tools that looked brand new. But is the oil fresh in my truck? Yes. Are my tires inflated to proper air pressure? Yes. All of the repairs that I have done to my vehicles may not be up to his standards (again, impossible). But, earlier this year, when I needed to drive my old truck 1,000 miles to North Carolina and back, I did not hesitate. I knew the filters were clean, the fluids were all fresh, the brake pads were good, and the clutch was new. Just like he would have it.
I do all the repairs to my truck and RV because he told me, "Stevie, engines are simple. You fix things when they break and follow that maintenance schedule in the manual. You buy the tools you need for the job. You'll never regret buying the right tools." I have applied that advice to music gear, vehicles, construction equipment, and everything else. Now, my garage is so full of mechanics tools, carpentry equipment, and music gear that I cannot park a car in there. And THAT is something he would never approve of, but technically it is because I followed his advice!
As husband, father, and grandfather, he was quiet. He loved peace. He loved everyone sitting around the dinner table. He loved hearing me pound out power chords with a wretched amount of distortion. I would hear him say to my Grandma, "Hey, did ya hear that? He's gettin' better, Hazel! Sounds good, sounds good." Clearly, it did not sound good. But I bet that it sounded good to him.
In retrospect, I know he was just as proud as any father would have been. When I cleaned something (for once), when I mowed the lawn, and when I changed my oil, he would stand there with his hands on his hips and watch. At the end of a job, he would look at it and say, "Good job, Stevie. You keep that up and you'll be a good man." And unbeknownst to me, and maybe even to him, those approvals rebuilt my confidence that had been shattered by years of abuse.
My Grandpa's training at home directly correlated to the trade that I have worked the better part of a decade since graduating high school. Before I was a musician full-time, at my Grandpa's suggestion, I worked construction. I still work construction when I am at home with nothing to do. I spent thousands of grueling hours in the relentless Florida sun, sweating out my anger and frustration. I came to terms with myself as a man on those concrete slabs: cutting 2x4s, nailing on siding, screwing down tin roofing, cutting drywall, installing windows, painting walls, measuring miles of trim, mortaring tile, gluing down wood flooring, and finishing furniture. In those years, I ripped my muscles to shreds and pushed my body to the brink. I saw sunrises and sunsets on job sites. I worked 70 hours a week at some points.
In that time, God did not let my Grandpa's work go to waste. He made me work for bosses that demanded absolute perfection, despised cutting corners, and modeled honesty. I worked on the most expensive custom homes in the county. I would spend months puttying and sanding every single nail hole in 3 story, 5,000+ square foot homes. Interior and exterior. I was patient because I had no choice. I was single minded because my only other choice was insanity.
For years, my job was to examine every inch of every home for the tiniest imperfections. And when imperfections were found, I did not pass the job of fixing them on to someone else. I lovingly and patiently sanded, patched, waited, sanded, patched again, sanded again, cleaned, primed, and repainted every imperfection. Day in and day out, 9 hours a day, I would systematically walk through these giant, empty, silent homes and carefully identify every smudge, discoloration, or oddity that would mar the home that was worth over a million dollars. I hated it more than anything at the time.
It was only in the past few months that I truly have realized the work my Grandpa started and God has continued in me through all these years. It was to build patience where there was none. It was to teach me to draw a distinct, immovable line between right and wrong and cleave to what is right. It was to show me how to unconditionally love and serve my future wife and family. It was to teach me to have a conscience as spotless as the house. It was to develop a wrought iron will. It was to sweat out the most dangerous anger and bitterness. It was teach me to carefully, patiently, and lovingly repair those around me who are damaged. God was teaching me to continually dig deep and identify my flaws and shortcomings, not so I could overlook them...
...but so that I could sand them down, patch them with His truth, wait, sand them down again, patch them with His truth again, sand them again, clean them by His sacrifice on the cross, prime them with His love, and slowly, but surely, become a man my Grandpa and my God are proud of.
