Forgetting My Brother

I did not own a car while I was living at home.  On the rare occasions that I drove, I drove one of the two family cars- a Rambler or a Buick Le Sabre.  Most of the time I walked to school, but sometimes I was allowed to drive.

One morning, my Dad asked me to drive to school and to take my little brother, Mitch, to his elementary school.  Since Mitch's school let out earlier than my high school, I parked the Rambler in a spot that was midway between the two schools.  Mitch was to walk to the car and lock himself in until I arrived 30 minutes later. Today that plan would be considered insane by all normal people and we would have been arrested for neglect by the Department of Social Services.  But it was a different time in which we lived.

The day passed slowly by as all of my high school days did.  When the final bell rang, I went to my locker, grabbed the books I needed for the night and walked straight home.  Arriving home, I turned on the T.V. and watched some of my favorite Westerns (Cheyenne, Sugar Foot, Maverick) while Mom prepared dinner for the family.

At 5:15 my Dad arrived from work and Mom called us all to the table.  I noticed Mom staring at us, looking at us one by one.  She looked at me; she looked at my sister, Wanda; she looked at my brothers Phillip and Keith.  She looked at my Dad, then back at me and asked the question that I will always remember, "Where is your brother, Mitch?"

I looked at the empty chair beside Dad and slowly it began to dawn on me what I had done.  I had forgotten that I had driven to school.  I had forgotten my brother was to meet me in the car after school.  I had been home for nearly two hours, watching T.V. while eight year old Mitch was who knows where.

I said nothing.  I simply stood up and walked to the door, then ran, like the track athlete I was, the fastest half mile in the history of the world; flying past slow moving cars and neighbors; running by the high school to the street where I parked the car.  I ran up to the car and looked inside.  And there was Mitch- sitting in the driver's seat with both hands on the steering wheel, pretending to be driving.  I unlocked the door, Mitch scooted over, and I drove him home.  Mitch ran into the house, sat down in his chair at the table while I, under the steady gaze of my Mom and Dad, tried not to laugh with my brothers and sister.

This is funny even to this day.  But this story also reminds me that our lives can become so routine, and we can become so focused on the immediate task at hand, that nothing else exists outside our narrow vision of the world.  And when this happens, we forget our brothers and sisters.  But they are there, waiting for us to remember that they exist; that they are people with lives; with hopes and dreams, just like you and me.

In Pursuit of God

Everyone wants to be happy.  Our Declaration of Independence states that one of our inalienable rights is the pursuit of happiness.  So, as Americans, we have a right (given by God) to pursue happiness.  Are we happy?  Maybe. Maybe not.  The World Happiness Report ranks America as the 17th happiest country in the world.  Granted, this is a subjective report, based on how people rate their overall happiness.  But, according to this report, as other nations' happiness rankings are rising, ours is falling.  We currently rank behind Canada, Costa Rica, and Mexico.  Only 33% of our population regard themselves as very happy, down from 35% in 2008 and 2009.  Despite our standard of living and our material wealth we are less happy.  Why is our happiness quotient falling?  The report sites greater instances of depression and anxiety as contributors to our unhappiness.  Age plays a role, with younger people being less happy than older people.

In addition, a very high percentage of people regard themselves as either religious and or spiritual (maybe as high as 90% of our population).  Should these people not be happy?  If a person truly believes in God, a God who is a God of love, a God of mercy and grace, a God who forgives and gives second chances, should this person not be ecstatically joyous?  Should spiritual people (even those who are not religious) not know peace in the midst of chaos?  Should this not be cause for great happiness?

If so, why are we not 90% happy?  Because we have been pursuing our religion and our spirituality as if they are material things.  And in this pursuit, if we are not careful, we may lose our faith in a God of love while pursuing tangible, material proof of God's love through our vision and mission statements; our goals and objectives; our budgets and expense reports; our building renovations; our progress dashboards (with green lights, yellow lights, and red lights); our committees and structures and our systems. God's presence cannot be reduced to the slogan, "if we are not growing we are dying".

It is my belief, that God wants us to be happy.  After all, we were created to be in relationship with God. The fact that we are not happy has more to do with our own failure to take God's hand and walk as a child of God.  Buddha once said, "Your work is to discover your work and then with all of your heart give yourself to it,"  We must discover ourselves as children of God, then with all of our hearts give ourselves to living as children of God.  This is the path to true happiness.

2721 S. Church Street

We have come to expect change as normal.  "Things change" we say.

 And then, we stumble across a place that time does not seem to touch.  And we are changed.

2721 S. Church Street was the address I memorized when I was four years old.  It was the address I gave my first grade teacher when she asked me where I lived.  Occasionally I will revisit it when I visit my hometown and I am always amazed that the house and the yard and the neighborhood look the same as the day we drove away.

The road beside the house is still unpaved. The old detached garage with the dirt floors and weathered sideboards still stand in the back yard.  The cement picnic table on which my brother, Keith, and our friend Alan Ray, and I climbed and jumped off trying to fly, sat like a monument to those days.  The brick barbecue still stood beside the table, with its chimney reaching upward. The house with the wooden screened in back porch, where our toy box sat that dad nailed together and painted and mom put decals on, is essentially the same.

The house across the road where Alan Ray lived has also been untouched by time.  As I stand in the backyard I see the shed where we used to play.  To my right is the back porch under which their dog Stumpy used to sleep.  Stumpy was born with stumps for legs and he was blind in one eye.  He had a mean disposition and would slither along the ground like a snake trying to bite me.  Luckily he was not too difficult to outrun. But, he was scary.  I would always approach that back porch on tip-toe, looking underneath, dreading the sight I would always see; Stumpy with his yellow teeth bared and his good eye looking hatefully back at me.

Our house sat in front of the train tracks where there was some sort of station that caused the trains to slow down and even come to a stop.  There was a steel structure called a "catwalk" that stretched out over the tracks.  It had a ladder that my sister and I used to climb to the top of it, and we would sit, dangling our feet as the trains passed underneath us.  At night I would hear their whistles blow deep into the night and I wanted to ride the trains, to go where they were going, and to see the things that they would see.

Because the trains had to slow down near this station, the hobos riding the train would take that opportunity to jump off the train and would walk up the road to our home.  Some would stop and ask for food.  Mom would give them what she had.

One night a box car exploded.  The night sky was lit up like day and all the fire engines and firemen in Rocky Mount were there fighting the fire.  We later learned that it was some sort of chemical that had exploded.  All of the adults were concerned, but for the children who lived there it was an adventure like no other.

My parents built a new home and we moved away from 2721 S. Church Street when I was nine. But if you stand by the road today, you can still see the house and the yard as I saw them.  If you stand by the tracks, you can still see the slowing trains coming in.  The rusting catwalk still stands nearby.  And the train whistles will still take you away with them.

Not the End but the Journey

A professional football player was recently quoted as saying “Not winning the Super Bowl makes you wish you never played in it.” 

Everyone wants to win.  If you play a sport, the goal is to win.  If you play cards, the goal is to win.  No one consciously wants to lose.  The problem is that no one wants to exert the effort if they cannot win.  People who try their best and come in second place are regarded as losers. 

The Buffalo Bills went to the Super Bowl four years in a row.  No other team has accomplished this feat.  This means that they were the American Football Conference champions for four consecutive years.  They owned the AFC.  But, because they lost four consecutive Super Bowls, they are regarded as losers, not as the winners that they certainly were.  Jim Kelly, the only quarterback to ever start four consecutive Super Bowls, has never watched those games, because the memories of losing them are so painful.  After the fourth Super Bowl loss, people in Buffalo were actually calling radio stations and pleading with the team members being interviewed not to take them back to the Super Bowl.  Apparently it was not worth the effort if they could not win.

There is a quote that is attributed to Henry Grantland Rice in the early 1900’s that ends, “It is not that you won or lost, it is how you played the game.”  Martina Navratilova, a tennis champion of the 70’s and 80’s, after hearing this quote, said “Whoever said that probably lost.” 

Winning, then, is the only thing that matters.  Not how you play the game.  Not how you conduct yourself during or after the game.  Not how you handle defeat.  Winning is the only worthy goal, and it overshadows sportsmanship, and courage, and honesty, and fellowship- everything.  This is why people cheat, or play dirty, or lie.  To win at all costs. Even at the cost of our souls.

In the 1925, Bobby Jones, the greatest amateur golfer (and some would say the greatest golfer), who ever played, was winning the US Open when he accidentally touched his ball with his club while setting up for a shot.  The ball moved slightly.  No one else saw it.  But Jones assessed himself with a penalty shot.  This penalty shot cost him the title.  When he was praised for his honesty, Jones said “You might as well praise me for not robbing banks.”  To Jones, not giving himself a penalty shot was the equivalent to stealing, and he could not do it.  He would rather finish in second place than destroy his character.

If we are to be a people of substance; if we are to keep our souls, winning at any cost cannot be the way we play the game. Winning, in fact, will be secondary to the process of playing the game; a process in which we will find that it is not the end but the journey that matters most.

The Black Swan

We left our camp and walked down the trail.  We didn't know where we were going or what we would find.  We were just glad to be in the woods.  Or so I thought.

It was October.  Jeremy, my five year old son, and I were camping with the Girl Scouts at Camp Tarheelia.  They took us along for security since no other scout troop would be in camp that weekend.  Jeremy and I stayed in a tent in the woods and the girls and their leaders (including my wife) stayed in the cabin up the path.  While the girls were busy with troop activities, Jeremy and I went hiking in the woods.

We walked for 30 minutes when the woods opened up before us into a field of tall grasses.  In the middle was a pond.
"Come on, Jeremy."
"Where are we going", he asked.
"To the pond."
"How do we get there?"
"Through the grass."

Jeremy's eyes grew large and he shook his head.  I looked at the grass and realized it would be over his head.
"Follow right behind me," I said.  "I'll mash the grass down as I go."
I walked ahead.  A few feet into the grass I looked back.  Jeremy had not followed.
"Daddy, let's go back to camp."
"No, don't you want to see the pond.  There might be some ducks on it."

He walked a little way into the path I had made, looking to his left, then to his right, his eyes wide.  We walked like that for about 100 yards and finally made our way to the pond.  Below us, at the edge of the water, were wild cattails.
"See the cattails, Jeremy?"
"Are there wildcats in there?"
"No, cattails are plants that grow in the water of a pond.  Here, I'll show you."

I climbed down to the water's edge and reached for a cattail.  Jeremy lost sight of me.  "Daddy!" he screamed.
"I'm down here, Jeremy."
"Where, I can't see you.  Hurry, I hear noises."

I listened.  There was a strange noise coming from the pond.  I parted the cattails and looked out onto the water.  In the distance was a large, solid black swan with a brilliant red beak.  I stood mesmerized by its beauty.  It looked at me and hissed.
"What was that noise?" asked Jeremy. "Let's go back to camp."
"It's a swan, Jeremy".  I cut a cattail, then went back to Jeremy.
"What's a swan?"
"I'll show you."

We walked around the pond to the opposite side of a field overgrown with wildflowers of all colors.  Jeremy saw barn in the distance.
"Does this land belong to a farmer?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Let's go back to camp.  In Peter Rabbit, a farmer chased him with a hoe for coming into his garden."
"This is a nice farmer and we aren't rabbits."

We walked to a clearing to watch the swan.  After a few minutes, Jeremy asked, "When are we going back to camp?"
"Let's go."

Jeremy led the way, running ahead of me through the field, through the grass and up the trail to our tent.  That night, all the Girl Scouts, the leaders and Jeremy and I sat around the campfire that Jeremy helped me build.
Jeremy showed the girls his cattail.
"What's that?" they asked.  "Where did you get it?'  "We want one."
"Me and Daddy, we found it at the pond."
"A pond!  Where's the pond?"
"Only Daddy and me know how to get there.  And there's a black swan on it with a red mouth."
"A black swan!" they screamed.  "You've got to take us there tomorrow and show us.  Will you, Jeremy?'
"Yeah.  But you have to be careful because you have to walk in the farmer's field."
"We'll be careful.  Will you show us where the cattails are?"
"Yes, but you can only have just one."

The girls went up the path to the cabin and left Jeremy and me by the fire.  The fire crackled and sputtered and the firelight reflected in Jeremy's eyes.
"Do you think the black swan will be there tomorrow when we go back?" he asked.
"Yes, he lives there."
"I'll show them where he lives and how to walk through the grass.  And then I will help you cut some cattails for them." said Jeremy.

The fire began to die down.  "Daddy, I can't wait for tomorrow."
In the dim light, Jeremy looked suddenly older.  And I threw more wood on the fire, wishing the night would last forever.

All He Wanted was a Christmas Tree

Sometimes Christmas is about the gifts and sometimes it is about love and giving.  Sometimes it is about both.  And this was the case on a cold night in December long ago.

Some friends of mine were working at our church on that cold night, selling Christmas trees to help raise money for our outreach programs.  The Christmas tree sale was a large event at our church and most of the men were involved, selling trees during the day and at night.

On that particular night a woman walked onto our lot and told them a story that would change the way they would view Christmas and Christmas trees forever.  She was a Teacher Assistant in a first grade classroom.  On that particular day the first grade teacher was letting each child in the class tell their classmates the things they would like to receive for Christmas.

Each child named the typical things; bicycles, computer games, dolls, footballs.  And then the teacher turned to a boy in the back of the class and asked, "And what do you want for Christmas?"

"A Christmas tree."  he said.  The teacher, thinking she did not hear him correctly, asked him again.  "A Christmas tree," he said again.  Some of the other children began to laugh.

"If I can get a Christmas tree then Santa Clause will come." he continued.  Realizing her error, the teacher changed the subject and quickly moved on, but neither she nor the teacher assistant would forget the child's words.

So, the Teacher Assistant stood on our tree lot, tears streaming down her face, the men holding them back.

"We will take care of this."  they assured her.  And on that night they delivered a Christmas tree to a happy first-grade boy and, unknown to the boy, they delivered a truck load of gifts to his mother that they bought at a nearby store.

Whenever I am putting up my tree, I wonder if we don't take too many things for granted and I wonder if we don't realize that we have been blessed many times over.  I wonder if we don't complain too much about things that do not matter.  What I don't wonder about is the power of love; the power of love to transform us;the power of love that caused those teachers to reach out; the power of love that caused those men to shut down their tree lot and respond to a boy's cry for help.

The Blackberry Blues

In May of 1992, wild blackberry vines began to grow next to my backyard fence.  For two weeks I mowed them down, regarding them as a nuisance.  The vines were persistent and, by default, I decided to let them grow.  They flourished and began to bloom.

My son, Jeremy, soon noticed them and asked what they were.  Being a person who loves to tell a story, I not only told him what they were but I told him of my boyhood adventures picking blackberries and of blackberry pies; how good they smelled when they were baking in the oven; and how warm and sweet and juicy they tasted when they were served.

Jeremy's eyes widened as he swallowed and licked his lips.  After that, each day I would see him checking the vines looking for the red berries that had turned black.  As we would pick the berries he would ask, "Do we have enough for a pie?"

We didn't get enough berries that summer.  So, Jeremy waited.  All fall and winter we would walk over to the vines and I would tell him about my boyhood blackberry picking and of blackberry pies.

As the spring arrived the vines began to grow and bloom.  We watched and waited each day for the berries to appear.  Each day, as I walked into the house from work, Jeremy would meet me at the door with a blackberry report.  Soon the bloom turned to red berries and the red to black and we began to pick them.  Each day we would pick a small bowl full and dump it into a larger bowl.

"When that bowl is full we will make a pie," I told him.

Slowly the bowl filled.  Each night before going to bed, Jeremy would open the refrigerator and look the bowl; staring at it wishfully.

The bowl finally filled.  Jeremy watched as Melanie, my wife, prepared it and put it in the oven.  He sat in the kitchen, breathing in the smells.

As I entered the kitchen from outside, Jeremy yelled to me, "Mama made the pie!  Mama made the pie!"

After supper, we stood watching as Melanie brought the pie from the oven.  Jeremy was dancing with anticipation.  " I get the first piece!" he shouted to his sister, Erin.

"I don't care," grunted Erin, "all I want is the crust."

Melanie scooped the pie from the pan and into Jeremy's plate.  The smell of it was as I remembered.

"Let it cool a bit before you eat it," cautioned Melanie.

Jeremy blew on his fork then put the contents into his anxious mouth.  The light in his eyes immediately went out.  His face contorted.  He swallowed hard, then drank a glass of milk.

"What's the matter?"  I asked.

"It doesn't taste good." said Jeremy.

I tasted it.  It tasted just like I remembered.  "It does taste good.  Give it another try."

He tried again, with the same result.  "I'll just eat the crust," he said.

After everyone had left the table, I sat alone looking at Jeremy's plate.  It was filled with blackberries.  I tasted them.  They were warm, and juicy, and sweet.  Just like when I was a boy.  And I ate them all.