Sometimes, miracles do happen. Whether they are caused by divine intervention, the accumulation of positive cosmic energy, or just dumb luck is a question I will leave to theologians, philosophers, and daring statisticians. Whatever their origins, the benificiaries of such phenomena are damn glad to reap the gifts.

The more cynical among us may be  suspicious of gifts from the universe at first, if not completely rejecting their  benefits out of hand. We types are welded to our  belief  in an indifferent universe, that we are in control of our destiny. Such fools we are, questioning the ramifications of this  and that good fortune, looking the proverbial gift horse in the mouth.

Then there are those of us who want to believe in miracles, but somehow think that accepting their richness would be  morally unbecoming. "Oh, let it flow  down to the next guy" we think in our  moments martyrdom. If that is not a stern rebuke  of common sense, I don't know what is. It's a crime against not only the self, but the miracle. If  life gives  you an open net, punch it in, lad. 1-nil!

I hesitated when I saw it. It was cash- two Abe Lincolns and two George Washingtons glistening in the refracted rays at the bottom of Barton Springs. It was a glorious Sunday afternoon, April 25. There wasn't a cloud in the sky which was a  deep blue typical of early spring, a flourish of color before the harsh, washed-out hues of Summer take stage. Twelve bucks.

"Could this be? Would it be wrong to take it? Is someone missing it now?"

"Probably not," I reasoned. "He," of course it was a 'He', "had probably forgotten all about it and would not discover it until he got home, if he noticed at all. "

So I dived down and claimed the lost cash. What good would it do to ask folks if they'd lost cash? It had no one's name on it, except George, Abe, and a  Treasury Secretary. They sure weren't at the Springs. The $12 was  now mine. This is why I always snorkel in the Springs. Hundreds   of  people with their heads above water had probably swam over the booty already. Now, thanks to my $70 diving gear investment (mask, snorkel, and and kick-ass neon green split fins) I'd made two summers ago, I was now $12 richer! I was a man of prudence, a man alert to opportunity. I was an American. 

Earlier, I'd borrowed $2 from the Fabulous NC in order to pay the $3 entry into Barton Springs. I happily paid my creditor with wet Washingtons. I'd now be able to get into the Springs 3 more times with a buck to spare.

But the Sunday miracles did not end there.

God, or, rather, someone  close to God was going to appear at a nearby church that night.

I'd had a divine vision - okay, I got an email, telling me all about it.

Much discussion had been batted back and forth over the last year or so between the Fabulous NC and I regarding our dire need to see a certain performer known and beloved by all Americans. We'd never seen the man play live, and he lived in our backyard. None of us, performer included, were getting any younger. The performer was about to turn 77. It was imperative that we see him before one of us kicked off.

But seeing Willie  Nelson's Fourth of July Picnic is about as appealing as an alien rectal probe, though some readers at this site may find that exciting. I cannot think of a less savory option than standing around in the  Hill Country sun, battling bugs, sunstroke, and drunken yahoos while enduring countless bands I didn't know, nor wanted to know, while waiting for his high-ness to appear late, late in the evening. I'd also miss a day of World Cup action (okay, so they aren't playing that day, but I'll need some time to rest up for the Final Rounds!). But my obligations as a native Texan were forefront, as well as the obligations to help fulfill the happiness of  my significant other. I targeted May 1st as a purchase date. I would endure the unendurable for love and Texas.

Lo and behold, the divine email came to me in all its glory late Thursday. "Willie Nelson Live at Riverbend Church, Sunday April 25th" said the subject line. I was floored not only by my salvation, but that  tickets  were a mere $25. My credit card spilled from my pocket, and  my fingers flew to gettix.com. A mere $50 plus fees saved me from a day of hellish summer misery. Praise Willie!

Now Riverbend Church is no ordinary church. It's big, but by no means  a mega-church. It seats maybe a thousand. It sits at the bend of the Colorado River out in the lush hills west of town by the iconic Pennybacker Bridge, well within spitting distance  of the  biggest chunk of the area's wealthiest denizens. Its head pastor honcho, Gerald Mann, presides over a flock of the moneyed and famous. Ladybird Johnson's funeral was at Riverbend. Mann, whose voice and limbs are waning,  counts Willie, Coach  Darrell Royal, among Presidents and legislators, as good friends. Camels seem to pass through the eye of a needle effortlessly at Riverbend. 

I learned that the gig was not promoted at all, save  by email and word of mouth. The auditorium was not quite filled. There were maybe 800 in attendance. It was an  intimate setting.

The Red-Headed Stranger pulled out most, if not all, of his classics. I lost count - "Georgia,", "Blue Eyes Cryin'", "On the Road Again," "You Got the Money," along with a host of covers ranging from Hank Williams to Patsy Cline to Django Reinhardt's "Nuages" to, appropriately, a number of gospel tunes. Trigger, Nelson's nylon string guitar is getting worse for wear. A crescent shaped 4-inch gash sits below the bridge,  worn there  from years of pick strikes. Of course, there is also the red-white-blue guitar strap with the strangest rig for connecting to a guitar  I have ever seen.

I fought back some tears, then gave up, and let a couple stream, quickly daubing  them with a red bandana I'd secreted in my front pants pocket. I didn't want the Fabulous  NC to see me crying. When I looked over, I knew it wouldn't matter. She was a flood.

Neither of us have ever been country fans. I, for one, deplore most of the crap out of Nashville. I find all of Austin's countrypolitan  offerings unlistenable with just a few exceptions.  But Nelson is something special. He transcends genre. He does his thing really well, and whether or not that thing is your cup of tea, you cannot deny how unique and beautiful it is, and that you are in the presence of something timeless.

As big as the moment was, all I could think was that  I was finally fucking seeing Willie Nelson and what had taken me so long?

"On the Road Again," came in at mid-set (around the one-hour mark), making me think this was going to be a short show. Nelson actually played for another  hour after that. Perhaps he  is feeling the onslaught of angels getting nearer. He ended the  set with the gospel tune, "I'll Fly Away."

Some Glad Morning When this Life is O'er
I'll fly away...

The crowd, richies and rednecks alike, were in full voice on every word.

May it be a long time before Willie flies away.

Songwriter, Billy Joe  Shaver, recently acquitted of assault charges for shooting a man in the face near Waco, opened the show. On the day he was acquitted, he opened a gig in  Houston by telling the crowd,  "Miracles do happen."

Indeed they do, despite the fact that the Fabulous NC wants to go to the 4th of July Picnic even more now.