“…So, first of all, let me assert my firm belief thatthe only thing we have to fear is…fear itself — nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance.”– Franklin D. Roosevelt, Inaugural Address, March 4, 1933
Due to retinopathy and glaucoma, I have experienced many an eye surgery over the last five years. No fun whatsoever. As part of the give & take, my natural night vision has been damaged, bit by bit. I still drive at night, but I don’t unless it’s necessary. Craving light is what I do. If the road I’m on is dimly lit, or without reflectors along the stripes or curbs, my vision struggles to pierce the velvet blackness just on the other side of the headlight’s reach. At home, I am so grateful for the little nightlights plugged into the wall sockets for an easier overnight walk to the bathroom, or kitchen. With a portion of my night vision missing, the difference is truly noticeable.
Let’s say you blindfold yourself, just for a personal experiment. Once your eyes are covered you begin the attempt to navigate through your house. Better yet, try this in a home you are unfamiliar with. Each step is carefully placed as you bump into the baseboards and steps. Your hands search the walls for maneuvering safely, or the hope of it. Slowly your feet pioneer themselves across an unknown room, when suddenly they trip over the edge of a rug. You fall as if it were in slow motion. On the way down you think to yourself, “It would be helpful if the owner of the house, who knew this floor-plan, were in front of me, guiding me with their vocal directions.” As you get back up on your feet, you find within yourself a growing emotion…fear. The fear of falling again. The fear of breaking your nose on a door. The fear of knocking out a tooth on the staircase. The fear of…the unknown ahead.
We have been dreading the essential drive to the grocery store ever since the Coronavirus began its crawl across the USA. Droves of unreasonable citizens have been raiding the store shelves as if there was a run on dwindling inventory, buying more than average cupboards could hold without thinking of their neighbor’s needs. The day came. My wife fought through the mob to buy staples for the week. She found a severe lack of eggs, milk, meat, rice, pasta, to name a few. Just amazing for the average grocery store in America. The funny part of it is…there’s no real shortage of anything. She witnessed frantic shoppers racing about with wrinkled foreheads and frowns. The store was filled with consumers tied up in knots on the inside. We’ve seen this type of hysteria with gasoline in the past, haven’t we?
There must be a study somewhere within the bowels of a sociology think-tank which can tell us how mass hysteria occurs. Unfortunately, part of the reason for empty market shelves is greed. There are those who are so full of themselves that they purchase in large quantities of a targeted item for the purpose of private resale with an enormous price hike for others to pay. Trust me, this type of individual will receive their reward. However, the majority of consumers overstock in a crisis for another reason.
What fuels the tanks of the one who fills two or three basket-fulls of toilet paper during a pandemic is…fear itself.
There is a healthy fear each of us possess. It’s evaluated when you pull away from the edge of a cliff. We jerk our hand back when a fire ignites. A healthy fear reminds us to drive under 90 MPH. Then there are wonderful moments where healthy fear is suppressed by the weight of love. You see it when a parent runs into a burning house in efforts to save their child. Fear is quenched when assisting an elderly parent when they are down with the flu. Fear is pushed aside when a dog owner runs out on the a frozen lake to rescue their four-legged pal who fell through a patch of a thin layer. Stories like this are inspiring, along with soul searching.
Those prone to unreasonable, unjustified fright are minds that have conjured up scenarios which most likely are not realistic. Sure, COVID-19 is real. It is upon us all. The remedy is on its way, but not yet available. Citizens are to take precautions. It is a healthy fear to do so. Yet, we should guard against being tied up in knots during the panic.
An unhealthy fear is to fill a home up to the crown molding with a few thousand rolls of toilet paper while not have any produce in the fridge. A person who does this is one who feeds on the extreme as they envision it to be. Even though retailers, the retail workers, the CEO’s, the government itself, implores consumers to think reasonably with the news that there is no shortage of goods, they dive into a darkened place where they believe they will be in want for all things. The lack of “items” is the constructed fear.
Photo: Star News Online
FDR wisely raised the issue of unhealthy fear in his inaugural address in 1933. Yes, people where going through an economic depression. Americans were going hungry, losing jobs, standing in line at soup kitchens. The fear was real. Yet, he sensibly pointed out the deadliest fear facing the nation at the time. The most costly was, “fear itself”. He knew, all too well, unhealthy fear can bring someone to harmful illnesses, anxiety, even insanity. In fact, it was a contagious anxiety. He was aware unhealthy fear grows hurtful selfishness. FDR saw the men and women of his nation were not standing strong in the stiff winds of a fierce depression which carried many to suicide, murder, and hatred of neighbors. Truly costly. Even the children of those who tied themselves in knots began to lose hope. In essence, FDR was saying…“FEAR KNOT!”
Photo: Pinterest
Fear itself is like being blindfolded in a house not your own. It’s like driving a dark road at 4am while wearing thick sunglasses. When blind to the unknown, it can cause delusions. Fear itself develops a mental picture of what might occur, what could happen, what possibly would be in store, all without remedy. So many who have studied fear say about 90% of what we fear never happens. In that perspective it gives something to wake-up to tomorrow.
If only we had the owner of the house, who built the floor plan, to give us strong directions just ahead of each step we dare take in the darkest of moments.
I know Who that is. He is the Author of light, direction, and hope. He is the One who promised there were new mercies on the shelf every morning.
“Therefore do not be anxious, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’…your heavenly Father knows that you need them all. But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you. Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.” – Jesus – (Matthew 6) (ESV)
Certainty can be defined as this: Filling a tank with fear is contrary to fuel for the race.
“For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of instruction.” – Apostle Paul – 2 Timothy 1:7 (Aramaic Bible in Plain English)
“…Well I thought about it, you know I’m not playing. You better listen to me, every word I’ve been saying. Hot is cold, what’s cold is hot. I’m a little mixed up, but I’ll give it everything I’ve got. Don’t want your money, don’t need your car. I’m doing all right, doing all right so far. I’m givin’ it up for your love – everything.” (1980) – “Givin’ It Up For Your Love” – Composer & Recorded: Delbert McClinton
Merriam-Webster defines “Invest” with three different entries. The third is this: “To involve or engage especially emotionally.”
Most see it like this…
I was given a gift when I was about 10 years old. It was a piggy bank, but not in the traditional. It wasn’t in a “piggy” shape at all. It was transparent glass cylinders melded side-by-side. There were four of these cylinders, each just the size of each denomination of American coins. Much like a rain measurement gauge, the cylinders were marked-off to indicate how much was accumulated, depending upon how high the stack of coins. Unlike the old piggy bank, I could see and count how much my investments added up to based on my deposits. What a great teaching tool for a little kid. Within this profile of the man below, I will get back to the transparent bank of deposits.
Today, the north Dallas suburb where I live has a population of around 140, 000 citizens. When my mom and I moved here in the summer of ’73, it was far smaller. The suburb is clustered with other suburbs to the point of not knowing which one you are driving through if you are unaware of the borders. It’s always been a busy place with lots to do for whatever interests you might have.
Perry Road was between our apartment complex at the time, and the school I went to. It was explored the first week we arrived so we would know the route to my school. I walked that road every day during my 8th grade school year. Later, I would consider it my jogging street.
I often saw a little old African-American man walking down Perry next to the curb in a brisk gate. At first I didn’t really pay much attention to the man as we drove by. After seeing him a few more times, as the summer went on, I took a bit more notice of the old man. Once I got a good look, he appeared to be a vagrant, a poor homeless man, with weathered skin like leather. He looked to be in his 70’s. The idea of “Mr. Bojangles” came to mind. His thin faded shirt was oversized, ragged and dirty. His pants were either old cotton khakis, or worn-out bluejeans, complete with holes in various spots. There were times he was seen wearing a postal carrier’s uniform, but it was old and frayed. I always wondered where he got it, as I knew he wasn’t working for the post office. He always wore an old sweat-stained baseball cap. After awhile, it was the norm to see him with a burlap bag, or an old army duffle bag, swung over his shoulder with a couple of baseball bats sticking out. Being new in town, and knowing I would be walking to school, my mom was hoping we had moved to a neighborhood where transients wouldn’t be an issue. Seeing this old man caused her pause.
After the school year started, from time to time I would see this old man at my school’s baseball diamond swinging bats, hitting old lopsided beat-up baseballs with the stitching unraveling. There were always kids around him, from 6 year olds to teenagers. One day, I watched him from behind the backstop knocking one ball after another to whatever part of the field he pointed to.
I wasn’t into baseball, but this old man was surprisingly talented at the sport. They say from time to time a kid would beg him to hit one over the fence. A crooked grin would launch from his sweating weathered face, followed by a soft chuckle, then pick up a ball and at will, knock it over the fence. Two things come to mind. First, he did it with ease. Secondly, he looked far too skinny and old to put one over the fence. Like a finely tuned choir, the kids would say, “Wow! Cool! Far-out!” I could’ve hung around longer but, there were other things to do, places to go, people to see. Plus, baseball just wasn’t my sport.
Photo: Findagrave.com
The kids in the community knew him simply as, Jimmy. You could say he was like the Pied Piper, leading countless boys and girls to home plate and the pitcher’s mound. He was well-known for walking to various elementary schools, as well as the Jr. High schools, and city parks to start pick-up games for whoever wanted to play.
Little did I know he had been doing this for the neighborhood kids since the 1960’s. This mysterious old black man would come walking to these various baseball fields from seemingly out of nowhere. Out of his old worn-out bag came a couple of old baseball bats which he held together with screws and nails after being split or cracked. An armload of old baseballs, three or four ancient left-handed baseball gloves would fall out of the bag. He coached. He taught. He umpired. He pitched. He chose players for the teams. It didn’t matter to him if girls showed up. Jimmy saw them as no different than the boys. They all played their roles on the diamond, or outfield. If there was a kid who struggled at the game, he spent more time with them for encouragement and personal growth. Many an afternoon was spent teaching the art of baseball to the young community of our suburb. He loved the kids. They truly idolized the man. Jimmy would stay until the very last child had to go home. After waving the last player homeward, he would gather his baseball equipment in the bag and off down Perry Road he would go.
A few of my friends grew up being coached by Jimmy in the 1960’s and 1970’s. It’s amazing to me that I never really learned about Jimmy until I became an adult. Little did I know we had a baseball star in our midst.
Jimmy Porter was born September 2, 1900 somewhere in Tennessee. For some unknown reason, Jimmy Porter came to Carrollton, Texas in the 1920’s. Prior to his journey he had played for the old Negro Baseball League in St. Louis. When he arrived in Carrollton, he was unemployed, uneducated, and didn’t have a dime to his name. Considering the times, he was what they called a “hobo”, destined for a pauper’s life out on the streets. On top of that, being a black man in the south, life was not promising in the 1920’s. At the same time, he was rich in talent with a higher vision.
Shortly after he set foot in our community in the 1920’s, he formed a black semipro baseball team known as, The Carrollton Cats. He played and coached The Cats for several years until they eventually disbanded. Later, Jimmy convinced the leaders of the community to found a Carrollton Little League for the children. As expected, Jimmy coached the league for many years. Even after the Little League grew way beyond what it was in the beginning, after he no longer was the “official” coach, he continued to coach outside the league through pick-up games, not only in Carrollton, but also in the neighboring suburb, Farmers Branch, Texas. The games were casual, friendly, and educational. Jimmy was a small man, so he always made sure the smallest kids got to bat first. Everyone was welcome to use his old baseball supplies. Often at the end of the games, he hugged all the players with the warmth of approval. They say he always left them with a wave and yelled out, “Everybody just love everybody”. It’s ironic in that his motto described who he was.
Photo: Findagrave.com
Jimmy’s coaching grew some fruit. For many years, our high school’s baseball team was considered one of the best in all of Texas. In the trophy-case on campus, you can check out the championship trophies racked-up through the years. Some players went on to terrific college teams and minor league teams across the nation.
Although he was poor, he didn’t ask for money for any of his work with the kids. He was never seen begging in the streets. Jimmy did receive high praise from the community through the decades of his selfless work. Many offered him jobs. He was known for odd-jobs when he could get them. He did yard work, janitorial jobs, and grunt-work nobody wanted.
Despite his state in life, there would be awards of honor given, parades where he would be featured, as well as, a front row seat just behind home plate at all Little League games where he would hoop & holler encouragement to the players. In 1973 a city park, named in his honor with a beautiful baseball field, was built which included a Jimmy Porter monument. Jimmy didn’t have a family, so in 1977, Jimmy was awarded a lifetime membership by the Texas PTA. He was featured in several newspapers, local television, as well as, the NBC Today Show in 1982. Each year there is a recipient who is elected to receive The Jimmy Porter Award for outstanding community service. Today, some of Jimmy’s old baseballs, caps, bats, and gloves can be seen under glass at the Carrollton Historical Museum.
Little did I know at the time, Jimmy Porter lived in an abandoned railroad boxcar just off the depot about 3 miles from most of the ball-fields he visited. Frankly, I don’t believe most of the town knew where he lived. In the early 1980’s, Jimmy’s health began to decline. A few civic leaders, who once were under Jimmy’s wing in the dugout, built him a small frame house. It was way overdue. This old, quite hero shed a tear or two as the keys to the humble house were given to him.
At this point, I must admit I have some lingering anger. It spews from the fact that decades went by before this community offered Mr. Porter decent room and board. Think of it. In 1973, when he was 73 years old, they built a city park for the man and named it Jimmy Porter Park. Afterward the ceremony, they watched him walk back to his boxcar. I’ll leave the subject here.
Photo: Findagrave.com
Mr. Jimmy Porter softly left us December 11, 1984, just about a year after moving into his new home. He was 84 years old. The community purchased a modest plot in one of our cemeteries, on Perry Road, where he wore out his shoes walking to and fro the school’s ball-fields. His humble headstone features two baseball bats crossed.
Mr. Porter had no idea how important he would be to Carrollton and Farmers Branch, Texas. Sure, he was a pauper, an uneducated man, a man seen as a vagrant in the eyes of the misled and misdirected. Yet, as poor as he was, he gave. Much like the Apostle Paul in scripture, he was willing to be poured out for others, and the generations to come. Jimmy Porter gave of his personal value, the God-given special wealth inside of him. Like a transparent piggy bank, he lived long enough to see the dividends of a lifetime of deposits from his heart and talents. Multitudes who are now between 40-70 years old, who were raised in my neck of the woods, were, and are, his treasures. His investment was enormous. I would say, not so poor.
Like any good teacher, Jimmy Porter left an indelible mark on young lives that can be seen to this day.
Often I drive down Perry Road for old-time sake. It never fails, I admit to looking down the street for an old tattered black man with worn-out baseball bats slung over his shoulder.
Investing in the lives of others, without seeking anything in return, pours out in fuel for the race.
“Cast your bread on the surface of the waters, for you will find it after many days.’ – Ecclesiastes 11:1 – King Solomon (New American Standard Bible)
A special thanks to Dave Henderson for some of Jimmy Porter’s memories.
“See me. Feel me. Touch me. Heal me.”(1969/1970) “See Me, Feel Me” Recorded by: The Who. Composer: Peter Townsend (Later, this song was part of “Tommy”, the rock opera.)
Embedded in my mind are the regular visits I would make to an old cemetery, a couple of blocks away from my grandparents house in Greenville, Texas. Maybe it was a morbid curiosity, but I really don’t think so. I first recall walking among the old, weathered tombstones at about 7 years old, enamored with the dates of births and deaths. I had a love of history even then which continues today. Among some of the headstones are many which are no longer legible. The Texas weather, which tends to be extreme at times, has become a giant eraser for engraved letters and numbers, especially with sandstone. Yet, the old stones remain as monuments of someone who lived in the community long before it was a certified town. The oldest tombstone you can still read is of a man born the same year George Washington died, 1799. Here in Texas, that’s old, considering Mexico owned the land at the time, and largely uninhabited by white pioneers from the east. One thing is for sure, he was a brave soul, staking out land belonging to the Caddo Indians and Mexico.
Photo: Pexels
One summer day, I ran from the old cemetery, to my grandparents house, crying all the way. My grandmother, being concerned, asked why all the tears. I told her how I had discovered scores of tombstones of babies, toddlers, and kids my age (at the time), all passed away together, or around the same year. When I told her they died in 1917/1918, she told me of the horrid story of the Spanish Flu pandemic which thrived toward the end of WWI. The numbers are staggering. Globally, approximately 500 million were infected. 20 million to 50 million perished, with 675,000 being Americans. Of course, the elderly, the young, and the weak, were highly susceptible to the pandemic’s reach. The shared grief among the towns and communities must have taken its toll. As a little kid I understood it.
Of course, the new Coronavirus, also labelled, COVID-19, doesn’t even come close to those numbers. As I write this, China quarantined over 60 million people, roughly the size of Italy. It’s unprecedented. Again, as I write this, approximately 1,400 have died from the virus in China. 60,000 confirmed cases recorded in China. Unfortunately, I should mention there are rumors the numbers have been downsized by the Chinese government, and that the actual totals are far above and beyond what they have reported. Adding to speculations, rumors are growing concerning how and why the outbreak occurred. Some say it originated from a military bio lab where experiments with bio-weapons takes place. Others spread rumors that it was done by the Chinese government to distract from the news of the freedom protesters in Hong Kong clashing with the Chinese military and police. I truly hope it is not the case.
What is without rumor, are hard facts like, no cure, no medical answers, no recourse for the cases but isolation. Case numbers are growing all across the planet. Cruise ships have been quarantined. Ports have been shutdown. Many cases, who recovered and released, have returned for medical help after resurrected symptoms. Frankly, the news is bleak, dark, and grave.
In one hundred years, will there be a little kid astounded at the number of tombstones displaying “2020” as a collective death year? Let us all pray this will not be true.
Check out this inspiring picture…
Photo: Western Wall in Jerusalem. Israel National News.
This photo shows a prayer gathering at the sacred Wailing Wall in Jerusalem. It’s not the average prayer meeting among the people of Israel, but a poignant one. This shot displays an organized prayer assembly for the COVID-19 victims, as well as, medical organizations working around the clock to defeat it. The question is…why aren’t we doing this?
When Jesus walked the grounds of the ancient temple there in Jerusalem, He saw multitudes of the infected, the “unclean” outcasts due to leprosy. Like the quarantined cases, victims of leprosy were bound by law to keep away from the general public. There were leper colonies where they spent their final days. If one got too close to the general population, he/she had to yell, “UNCLEAN!”. Jesus had great compassion for these unnamed cases. Against the enforced law, He went to them, touched them, healed many, and showed love and grace toward the “Unclean”. Someone who hasn’t read about Jesus, or maybe not have taken the opportunity to study about Him, may be asking why He would do such a thing. It’s a fair question. Why would Jesus risk His own health, and His physical life to see, feel, touch, and heal desperate infected outcasts. After all, it was hopeless, or so they thought. There is an answer.
Have you noticed in this post, when referring to COVID-19 victims, I often use the word, “cases”? For the most part, the media, and the medical community, are doing much of the same when reporting on this expanding concern. Why not? Unlike a little kid looking at the name of John Lee Anderson, son of James & Mary Anderson, who died of influenza at 2 years old in 1918, we see a number. Today we would see the next victim of death in China as 1,401 of 1,401. The dead one (case) is taken outside of town, to a COVID-19 fire dump, where the bodies piled up and burned. So much for #1,401. A cruise ship of 2,000 vacationers may have 52 confirmed cases of COVID-19, quarantined away from shore. No name, no age, no grandma or grandpa of 18 kids back in Knoxville, Tennessee. We are just counting the diagnosis leaving out “who” they are and what they are to the loved ones waiting to hear of their condition.
It’s sad, don’t you think? In these colder times of humanity, we tend to not care of the hurting hearts involved, or the hardships others must take on to themselves.
Jesus saw “the individual” and their need. Being Who He was, He knew their names, their children, their hopes and dreams. He knew intimately little John Lee Anderson from 1918.
Count on this. There are never any “cases”, any “42 0f 57’s” inside fuel for the race.
“And having seen the crowds, He was moved with compassion for them, because they were wearied and cast away, as sheep not having a shepherd. Then He says to His disciples, ‘The harvest indeed is plentiful, but the workmen are few.'” – Jesus – Matthew 9:36-37 (Berean Literal Bible)
Photo: My grandparents as newlyweds in 1938, nesting at the Brazos River, Texas. They were married 69 years until his death.
“Ohh, whatever happened to old fashioned love, the kind that would see you through? The kind of love my Momma and Daddy knew. Yeah, whatever happened to old fashioned love, the kind that would last through the years, through the trials, through the smiles, through the tears. (Bridge) For now the tenderness has been replaced with something less, and it’s hard to find what we left behind…..”
(1983) “Whatever Happened To Old-Fashioned Love?” Recorded By: B.J. Thomas Composer: Lewis J. Anderson
I love the truthful lyrics in the bridge section. “…the tenderness has been replaced with something less…”
There I go again, using the highly overused word, “L-O-V-E” when I didn’t mean it. Oh, sure, I like the lyric, but I can’t say I “love” the lyric…or can I? Come on, you know what I mean. My brain, my emotions, my gut, truly holds the lyric close to my heart. Is that love, or infatuation?
Valentine’s Day can be so cute in so many ways. The little Valentine cards we used to swap out in out elementary school days cause me to chuckle now. Just like the little heart candies, “Be Mine”, “I think you’re cool”, “Here’s a heart for you”, etc. It was all so very innocent, wasn’t it? Then, we grow into our hormone-owned teen years. Yikes! Us guys can truly be a grand example of what love is NOT. You girls seemed to have a better handle on it. Maybe I’m wrong about that. You tell me. It reminds me a bit when I think of the old TV show, “The Love Boat” from 1977-1986. You remember the first couple of lines to the theme song, “Love Boat”. Singer, Jack Jones piped it out:
“Love, exciting and new. Come aboard. We’re expecting you….” (1977) Composers: Charles Fox & Paul Williams.
I think that has been one of the distractions about the definition of love in our culture. Love can be ‘exciting and new’, but usually not. In fact, ask any couple who just celebrated their 68th wedding anniversary about “excitement” or “newness”. They will laugh at you. But wait a minute. Isn’t passion, sexual desire, and infatuation exciting and new? My twist would be, yes. Passion, sexual desire, and infatuation can be exciting, especially if it has just redirected your focus in life, a new focus, even if only for a brief amount of time. But….is passion, sexual desire, and infatuation, L-O-V-E? Let’s ask the British rock band, 10cc from 1975…
“I’m not in love, so don’t forget it. It’s just a silly phase I’m goin’ through. And just because I call you up, don’t get me wrong, don’t think you’ve go it made. I’m not in love, no-no…..”
Actually, some of the lyrics in this hit can be downright hurtful, like:
“I keep your picture upon the wall. It hides a nasty stain that’s lying there. So don’t you ask me to give it back. I know you know it doesn’t mean that much to me. I’m not in love, no-no. It’s because…” Composers: Eric Stewart & Graham Gouldman
OUCH! I wonder if he was that honest to her face, or if the song was just therapy written on the road in a cheap hotel?
Valentine’s Day can be a danger for some unsuspecting romantics out there. (I know of what I speak. I can write about this with real-world experience.) Let’s face it, we want to be loved…right? That desire is in the human heart even before birth. Like an empty blender just waiting for the colorful mix of goods to be poured into us. Am I right? Come on, be honest with me.
So, sure. We love dogs. We love cats. We love horses. We love romantic movies. I love that color on you. I love a brilliant, blazing sunset. I love Tex-Mex and Chinese food. Boy, do I love that ’68 Ford Mustang. What kind of L-O-V-E is that?
How ’bout this? You see him/her from the other side of the restaurant, munching on a burger. The view is of a nice looking specimen of humanity. You toss away your slightly tomato-stained napkin and walk briskly straight for him/her. You only have two words in your vocabulary at the moment as you lock eyes on this beautiful person. As you arrive at the table, your mouth opens and out comes the channeling of David Cassidy…“Hi, I think I love you.” He/she chokes on a slice of onion. After the Heimlich Maneuver, he/she is bold enough to ask…“How do you know?” Good question. I guess you could say, “It’s your crystal blue eyes, your matching blue suit, the tattoo of the hammer and sickle over the entire left side of your face. I love everything about you!” Okay, got it. A wise person, with a head on their shoulders, might say you idolize the look of this person. What you don’t know is, he/she is a closet Neo-Nazi, an axe murderer, and someone who leaves their filthy Mini Mouse socks on the floor. So, after he/she reveals these details of “WHO” he/she is, you lower your head with embarrassment, turn and walk slowly back toward your table to rejoin your spouse and five children.
It took me decades to reevaluate using the word, “love”. If you THINK you’re in love because of what the other person can do for you and your life, you should reevaluate. Toooften this is the case.Or, you love the “idea” of falling for someone with an Irish accent, or someone from your hometown, or someone with red hair. So, you go on a hunt to find an Irish redhead who just happens to live where you grew up. Careful. That smell is from a dead relationship. Take inventory of your motives and fantasy life.
I’m grateful for the letter “L”. It launches both “Love” and “Like”. If you start to say “love”, and don’t truly mean it, you can easily self-edit as you evolve your pronunciation into “like”. Try it. “I need you to know I really, really LLLLike you.”
Are you confused yet?
Scripture defines love as a verb, not a feeling. Some reveal they didn’t understand love until they had a child added to their lives. Getting into the weeds of original root word languages, you could discover there are different brands of “love”. Yes, we should love our neighbors as ourselves. We should love our families with all that we are. And yes, we should love our enemies. “That’s hard”, says Nancy Pelosi and Donald Trump. There’s a picture burned into my mind, from the Desert Storm War in Iraq. It captured the image of U.S. Marines feeding and hydrating Iraqi POW’s in the sands of southern Iraq. What high bar to hurdle.
Jesus labelled the highest, premium degree of authentic love.
““There is no greater love than this: that a person would lay down his life for the sake of his friends.”– Jesus – (John 15:13 (Amarmaic Translation)
Literally, if you cannot agree to die, or be tortured, or to take-on someone’s cancer (if possible) for another person’s well-being, their life, their health, than most likely the highest shelf of the zenith of love is not an active agent in the relationship. Would you give a kidney to an old friend with stage 5 kidney failure? Would you run into a burning complex to rescue a co-worker? I think all various levels of love can be measured starting with the definition given by Jesus, Who loved you enough to do just what He said.
No, I am not willing to be sacrificed for a plate of tacos & egg rolls.
Be careful little mouth what you say. Be careful little hand what you write. If Valentine’s Day causes someone to misread your true heart for them, it isn’t kind. In fact, it would be cruel. Honesty is always best. It might be best to find a stain on the wall as you decide which 8×10 should go there.
One thing is certain, love is the very theme of fuel for the race.
Love ya! Mean it!
“If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a ringing gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have absolute faith so as to move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and exult in the surrender of my body,but have not love, I gain nothing. Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no account of wrongs. Love takes no pleasure in evil, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails. – Apostle Paul – 1 Corinthians 13:1-8a (Berean Study Bible)
“Please, Mister, please, don’t play B-17 It was our song, it was his song, but it’s over. Please, Mister, please, if you know what I mean, I don’t ever wanna hear that song again.” (1975) Please Mr. Please Recorded by: Olivia Newton-John Composers: Bruce Welch & John Rostill
Mama’s Pizza came to my north Dallas suburb in 1976, or so. It was the first New York style pizza to land in our area and it was a true hit. In fact, my single mom and I were one of their very first customers after they opened for business. The interior was very much like the no-frills, old pizza joints in New York City. It had its dark maroon painted brick walls kissing the eight or ten booths lining the long dark narrow dining area. There were three, maybe four tables for those that preferred them. The kitchen was out in the open with its used pizza ovens. (I say “used” because they didn’t look brand new to me.) Two brothers ran the place, both from New Jersey. They were both in their 20’s and going to school. One was in dental school, the other in business studies. They often fought publicly, but it only added to the atmosphere. They didn’t care how loud they were, or who could hear them. I smile thinking about witnessing shouts of, “DON’T BOTHER ME WITH THIS!”…”I CALLED MA LAST TIME. IT’S YOUR TURN, BOZO!”…”AH, FORGET ABOUT IT!”
One of my favorite things Mama’s Pizza had, there on the far back wall, an authentic mounted moose head, possibly a caribou, hanging out from the brick wall. It’s nose was just about eye-level. A couple of friends of mine had a tradition of kissing the nose of the poor beast. Just beneath the animal’s mounted head, an old classic jukebox. My classmates and I almost wore that thing out over our high school years. It looked something like this…
From what I recall, you could select your song for a dime, or a quarter if you wanted to push more buttons for a few more tunes. It seems they had current hits from the 70’s, as well as, some hits going all the way back to the late 50’s. Zero country songs. Very seldom did you ever see a goat-roper (Our word for cowboys back in those times.) come in for NY pizza. That’s was fine with us. We didn’t like country-western music.
Mama’s Pizza hasn’t been here in many years now. I miss it.
One thing Mama’s didn’t have was this…
Photo: Dallas Memories Facebook Group
Now, depending on how you are, you might not recognize what this is. Back in the day many small diners often sported these little treasures. Although most have thrown them out as the years marched on, from time to time you can still find some table-side jukeboxes. It seems like the last one I saw was at the Lake Effect Diner in Buffalo, NY.
Photo: Lake Effect Diner, Buffalo, NY. curtinresturants.com
As a kid, and as an adult, sheer excitement would take over whenever I spotted these babies. In fact, I remember searching for songs even before picking up the menu.
I will pretend you’ve never seen one. So, allow me to describe the experience. tThere is a knob, or lever, which turns the pages of the lengthy song-list. As you scan the titles and the artists, you should have your dime ready for your selection. Suddenly, you find your favorite tune, “You Ain’t Nothin’ But A Hound Dog” by Elvis. Next to the song is a letter or number, or both, that you would push the coordinating button for choosing. Boom, somewhere in the building is a jukebox remotely playing your selection over the speakers at your table. But usually there are speakers mounted in the ceiling for everyone’s listening pleasure…or hatred. And there’s the rub.
Like Olivia, there always seems to be a B-17 in our memory. Maybe you dislike Elvis, and there he comes, forced on your ears because some button-pushing customer in booth #3 selected it without consulting you first. What’s worse, he might have added a couple more Elvis tunes with a quarter in the slot. By the time your selection comes around, it may be time to tip the waiter and leave. Before you know it, just about the time the second verse of “Blue Hawaii” comes around, you’re thinking of taking your sliced tomato off your burger and throwing it toward booth #3. Do the math. B-17 + Communal Music = Internal Sour Notes.
Photo: wikihow-life
For me, the heavy remains to be my personal B-17’s. You know what I mean. It’s not so much a disliked artist, but rather a song. There’s nothing like music that drags you back to a memory, whether it be a good one, or a bad one. It could be a relationship that went south and the song on B-17 in the selector was what you called, “Our Song”. Tell me about it, I know it very well. I could cry a river a few times. Maybe it was the song on the radio you were singing along with as a truck pulled out in front of you, leaving you in a body-cast for a few weeks. Someone might think of a song sung at a funeral for a loved one. That’s what happened to me with Joe Cocker’s “You Are So Beautiful”. To this very day, I sink in sadness when it plays over the air. The song was performed over the coffin of my friend and mentor back in July of 1981. All these years later the song stings me. Music has Velcro. It’s the way God created it. Music stamps visuals, times, and places. So many songs do deliver sweet mental-videos of first cars, first dates, weddings, births, and graduations. If the guy in booth #3 selected one of those I might be persuaded to buy his grilled cheese sandwich.
Sometimes being in a community isn’t always a pleasant thing. Am I right? It’s all about how you handle what you don’t want to hear, or see. Maybe the group of kids in the corner booth are dropping the F-bomb for all of us to enjoy. Maybe the idiot cutting people off in traffic gets your match lit. It simply might be a neighbor with a political sign in the front yard you wouldn’t vote for. Yep, sometimes being communal isn’t always tasteful. What’s your B-17?
So Olivia is spot-on with, “Please, Mr. please, if you know what I mean, I don’t ever want to hear that song again.”
Grace, living out grace, handing out grace overcomes a lot of B-17’s in life. Biblically speaking, it means giving favor to someone, or some thing, who you feel doesn’t deserve favor. Grace fuels merciful action and thought.
“Lady” by Kenny Rogers is a B-17 for me. It brings up a life-long choice which turned out to be a youthful mistake. For many moons the sound of the song angered me, literally. However, when hearing now, I work hard on hunting for the true value the lyrics have for others, not focusing, or feeding on the sour notes of my own past decision-making. What’s history is history, grace would say. I for one, need grace all the time, every day. So glad the Creator invented it, and distributes it. It’s what’s on God’s menu for us, the consumer.
Before selecting that button, it’s wise to order-up a good warm cup of fuel for the race.
“Give, and it will be given to you; a good measure–pressed down, shaken together, and running over–will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use, it will be measured back to you.” – Jesus – Luke 6:38 (Holman Christian Standard Version)
“Oh, crumpled bits of paper Filled with imperfect thought Stilted conversations I’m afraid that’s all we’ve got…So we open up a quarrel Between the present and the past We only sacrifice the future It’s the bitterness that lasts. So don’t yield to the fortunes You sometimes see as fate It may have a new perspective On a different date…Say it loud, say it clear You can listen as well as you hear It’s too late when we die To admit we don’t see eye to eye.” – (1988) The Living Years, Recorded by: Mike and the Mechanics. Written by Mike Rutherford and B. A. Robertson
The hallway was busy between classes that day. The platform shoes were loud on the polished hard floor like horses on a brick street. Everyone was running to their next classroom before the final bell rang. I, in my bell-bottoms and bell sleeves, was coming out of the choral department rehearsal hall after an a cappella session. My steps were already inside the broad hallway, but had yet to fully walk through the threshold as my hand remained on the thick heavy wooden door. That’s when I looked up and saw her. It was Lori Kennedy high stepping it toward the choir-room door from B-Hall. She was running a tad late to get to her place on the rehearsal risers just inside the entrance for Women’s Select Choir. It was a Friday, game-day at our north Dallas suburban high school of 3,500 students. I recall it was a Friday because Lori was decked-out in her Lionette drill team outfit from a pep-rally earlier the same morning. As she approached the doorway, I quickly made my way through the entrance while holding the door open for her. By the time she was within two, or three steps from me, her dark brown eyes pierced mine as she sternly stated, “I can open my own door!” as she swiftly rushed by me. OUCH! That was unexpected. It wasn’t like me to freeze, but I did due to shock. It was best because it also kept my mouth shut.
Lori Kennedy, 1978 R.L. Turner High School Yearbook.
Lori and I were 16 at the time, in 1976. She was about five weeks older than your’s truly. Our social circles overlapped, so we had mutual friends, but the two of us were mere acquaintances. In fact, I don’t think we ever had a conversation before that uncomfortable moment. It’s not that we avoided one another, or even ignored the other purposefully while within earshot. We both certainly knew about the other, but distantly. From time to time, over four years, we even dated our close shared friends, but never one another. There were multiple occasions where we hitched a ride with other friends while stuffed in a 1973 Chevy Camaro. We were on the same bus during our music concert tours with the choral department’s Spring trip each year. We also found ourselves sharing a bus for choral UIL contests performed in other cities. Then there were gatherings at picnics, parties, and popular hangouts, etc. I should stop here because as I write this I’m remembering many more circumstances where Lori and I shared space through high school. We, for what ever reason, never made the effort to get to know each other. One might say, we knew each other through our fellow classmates.
With all that said, it makes her stark, rude remark, (the first words she ever spoke to me), that much more odd. Maybe she was having a bad day. Maybe her boyfriend just broke up with her. Possibly life at home had hit a wall. Could she had slipped on a banana peel in the cafeteria line? Maybe there was a social undertow of knowing we didn’t see eye-to-eye on life itself.
One thing is for concrete sure, she didn’t know my mom and granddad taught me how to treat the opposite sex going back to my toddler years. Chivalry was the order of the day in my family. I must have been three years old, when walking down the sidewalk with my mom and grandparents, my granddad gently instructed me to always walk closest to the curb when walking next to a lady. When I asked why, in his rural Texas fashion and verbiage, he explained that if a tire splashes a muddy puddle onto the walkway, she will be spared from the splatter. He followed it up with, “That’s what men do.” He taught me to remove my hat if a lady enters the room. If a lady walks by, you tip the brim of the hat. If a lady is about to sit at a table, you pull the chair out for her, followed by the adjustment to table-side. If the lady is ready to remove her coat or sweater, you help remove it from her shoulders. When she is ready to wear the same, you hold it open for her as she slips her arms through. You always allow the lady to walk in front, choosing second place. You always open the car door for a lady before placing yourself in the car. And yes, you always open the door for a lady as she approaches it. In fact, I do that for men, as well as women. To be honest, I still practice all of the above to this day. It’s an act of courtesy, kindness, respect, and honor. I’m branded with it. So, what was up with Lori?
At the time, the women’s liberation movement was well above surging, at least in the U.S. It would be foolish to believe that 100% of women living-out the movement appreciated chivalry with its old Victorian manners. Because I neglected to get to know Lori, the real Lori, I may have missed my cue. It very well may have been Lori was exercising her newly discovered rules of engagement as dictated by the women’s liberation movement of the times. I would have been clueless. Nevertheless, she may have very well been offended by my gesture of holding the door open for her entrance into the choir room. Sure, I meant well, but she may have seen my action in another angle, unbeknownst to me. Just like one can peek through a glass of water while another may see a different distorted view. And here is where I went wrong.
My mind washed my hands of her as I walked away from the moment of friction. Lori Kennedy and I never had a potential conversation throughout the balance of our school years together. Never once. In fact, I totally avoided her. My misdirected thoughts went something like, “Well, if she’s going to treat me like a doormat, than I don’t have any use for her.” This is what unchecked anger can do. And so, in my bitterness over the incident, I made sure I ignored her each time our paths crossed, wherever it was. And what’s worse, I allowed our very quick moment in 1976 to stain my view of her from that time forth. Afterwards, the name Lori Kennedy was held in my grudge-peppered heart. My new title for her was, Little Miss Rudeness. Yes, it was wrong. Very wrong.
One would think in adulthood, with all its twists, turns, and teachings, I would’ve eventually understood better, loved more, and forgave even if I never saw her again in life. However, we did. God had other plans.
Lori Kennedy at a 2018 casual reunion with old friends.
A year ago, I attended two reunions with old friends and classmates. One was a casual gathering of about 200 as we paid tribute to a friend who had passed away the year prior. Two months later, it was our 40th high school reunion. Lori Kennedy and I bumped into each other at both events. During the first reunion, I saw her before see saw me. My first thought was to stay away from her, using my old searing angst as justification. With so many people attending, it would’ve been easy to just remain on the other side of the large club. Two months later, the 40th high school reunion gala would be upon us where most likely we would find ourselves in close proximity with mutual friends. Deep inside, I hated the tensity felt over seeing her again. Getting lost in the crowd was my first thought.
August 2018 at the casual reunion at the Fox & Hound Pub in Dallas.
Someone called out to her through the noisy event. With a turn, my eyes caught her. There she was, laughing, drinking, eating and enjoying a cluster of old friends. My reaction was to look away to protect the sore spot in my psyche. After looking down at my shoes for way too long, I filled my lungs with lots of air, slapped on my big boy pants, and made my way across the room of revelers.
She had changed so much since our teen years. Age hadn’t been particularly polite to her. Lori always lived fast and hard, so I just assumed it all caught up with her. She was a bit pale and thin, and the spark in her dark eyes had faded. Name tags are a gift from God in these cases, but not at this casual gathering. Often, at our age, it’s guesswork. I acted as if I wasn’t sure it was her. “Lori? Is that you?” She turned toward me, cocked her head and smiled. “Alan! Well, as I live and breathe! How are you?” I initiated a quick shoulder-hug. (Still showing signs of my grudge in a tiny gesture. I know, it’s all so stupid.) We spoke very kindly for another couple of minutes. After all, there’s not much to “catch-up on” when you didn’t really have a relationship to start with. I found out she lived alone with her two beloved Chihuahuas. Still, it was somewhat a relief to see her genuine greeting. Surprisingly cordial with a true smile, we shared good words between us. Simultaneously, there was this voice coming from deep inside me delivering a statement I never would’ve believed. It was so clear. Despite our differences, we could have been friends. Part of me began to feel ashamed what I had secretly held against her over the decades. Of course, I never brought up our one and only verbal encounter from the days of yore. Actually, she may not even recall the day she was snarky to me, the “doorman” from early in our junior year. Frankly, the thought had never occurred to me. Just because I always remembered it, shelving her as a tyrant and a princess prude forever, doesn’t necessarily mean she remembered our game-day intersect whatsoever.
Monday morning, October 7th, I got in my car, turned on the radio to my favorite classic rock station, and there it was, Rod Stewart’s “Forever Young”. It was the tripwire to heavy tears as I left my driveway for an hour’s drive to Lori Kennedy’s funeral.
After doing some digging, I discovered Lori was told by her doctor how early tests indicated she had Multiple Myeloma. This form of blood cancer wasn’t new to me. A church friend has been battling it for two years, as well as my brother-in-law, who is in the final stages of this life-sucking illness. An MRI had found a mysterious spot on her pelvic bone a couple of years prior. At that time tests were inconclusive. Apparently, Lori shrugged it off. She had been told most Multiple Myeloma patients have 3-5 years after diagnosis, maybe less. She was looking forward to her first oncologist appointment to confirm, plus discuss various treatments. That was during the last week of September. She passed away in her sleep at home less than a week later. After the very touching service I spoke with her parents. They told me she had been suffering from symptoms for at least 2-3 years, but had no idea she had been stricken with cancer until a few days ago.
Before the minister spoke, they played Eric Clapton’s Tears In Heaven. As it washed over the the ones gathered, I bowed my head and listened intently for the first time.
“…Would you know my name If I saw you in heaven? Would it be the same If I saw you in heaven?
Would you hold my hand If I saw you in heaven? Would you help me stand If I saw you in heaven?
Time can bring you down Time can bend your knees Time can break your heart Have you begging please, begging please…”
My hands trembled as I realized my judging heart. Deeply convicted, I acknowledged my stupidity in not letting go of one moment in time of offense. At my age, how could I have remained so immature? When we engaged last year, I was unaware she was in severe pain throughout her skeletal structure. As we stood there and chatted at the reunion, I was unaware Lori was constantly dehydrated, with bouts of deadly low blood pressure and visits to the ER. Little did I know she was choking down powerful pain killers just to stand, walk, and sit. As it turns out, she rarely left her house to socialize due to her struggle. The reunions were a goal she wouldn’t deny herself. And there I was, trying to be tempered, holding back my old resentment as she smiled at me, even though she should’ve been in the hospital. What a moron I was. So much time wasted. So much life experience gone. So many chances crumbled away in the living years.
After the service was complete, I approached the opened white coffin where an unrecognizable body was displayed. The remains of this person looked as if she was some 25 years my elder, resting among the satin lace. Even though it was way too late, I looked at the face, which once belonged to Lori, and whispered, “Forgive me, Lori. Forgive me.”
As I drove back home, I asked the Redeemer to forgive my unsettled anger.
True lessons in life come at the most heartbreaking times. Lessons of humility learned easier when filled with fuel for the race.
“And whenever you stand to pray, forgive whatever you have against anyone, so that your Father who is in Heaven may also forgive you your faults. But if you are not forgiving, neither will your Father in Heaven forgive you your faults.” – Jesus – Mark 11:25-26 (Aramaic Bible In Plain English)
“Kodachrome They give us those nice bright colors They give us the greens of summers Makes you think all the world’s a sunny day, oh yeah I got a Nikon camera I love to take a photograph So mama, don’t take my Kodachrome away…” (1973) Kodachrome Written & Recorded by: Paul Simon
Many moons ago I was a photography enthusiast. Actually, I still am, just not a practicing one anymore.
Around 1983, one of my co-workers was selling his gently used 35mm Canon AE1. I never had a serious camera before, just happy with an Instamatic and Polaroids, but always wanted one. It didn’t take long in life to discover I had a photographer’s eye and really wanted to dive in. When he realized I was interested, he sold it to me for a little bit of nothing. I made out like a bandit on that deal. I guess I have taken a few thousand shots with it through the years. These days it sits in my old dusty camera bag…in a closet I rarely use.
My photo albums can testify how much I love real film, not to mention the scads of containers of photos stored away. They are just visual moments in time documented for future eyes. Recently, a fabulous photographer encouraged me to pick up the camera once again. A big thanks to Darren across the pond at The Arty Plantsman.
Once I became an owner of a great camera, a telephoto lens and a telephoto zoom lens was added over the years. All-in-all it adds up to some great shutter adventures.
If you’re new to a 35mm camera, one of the first things to learn is the focus of your subject in the viewfinder. In the scope you find uneven lines to mesh together for a sharp focus of the subject targeted. So vital. Line up the focus lines and click away. (I love the sound of the shutter.) The field of depth can be tricky, but it can be mastered. Let me show you some old pictures of mine to give some visual examples.
Below, notice the tight focus of the bee hovering over the blooms at the renowned Ft Worth Botanical Gardens in Ft Worth, Texas. (Theses photos are from the mid 1980’s, so the color has faded with age. However, I’m sure you’ll get the picture. :>)
For the photographer, what I’m about to explain is simple common knowledge. I focused sharply on the bee visiting the blooms, but when I “focused” on the bee, the background became “unfocused”. Notice the leaves and branches are blurry. It’s okay for a shot like this and frankly, it’s expected.
However, when I focused more toward the middle of the field of depth, and not closing up on a bee, all becomes focused. See what I mean?
If Pinocchio came to my house I could zero-in on his nose, but it would leave the rest of his face out of focus. Isn’t it true, sometimes in life we do tend to focus on lies, deceit, and untrustworthy words? Panning back, one can always view the larger picture.
Here’s another example from my old Karate/Kickboxing days. (I used to break concrete for martial arts demonstrations in another life. Patio concrete slabs at Walmart were less than a dollar in those days.)
Notice the tight, sharp focus centering on the concrete slabs atop the mason blocks. Yet, the back of the heads, in the foreground, are very much out of focus. If I had focused on the back of the gentleman’s head on the right, then the stage area would be hazy in the field of depth.
One of my faults is a tendency to be a newshound. With all the jarring frays in the American political world of late, I find I must walk away and focus on other things. I guess you might say I need to fix my eyes elsewhere for a more pleasant subject in my mental viewfinder. Simply put, I need to adjust my field of depth. Do you ever feel that way?
Not long ago, I had a real issue with my 20-something step-daughter. We first met about four years ago. She lives hundreds of miles away making it a bit difficult to have a thriving, authentic relationship. Over a Facebook post, harsh words were spoken. Attitudes, which were hidden, suddenly bubbled out into the raw open. It was a hurtful event. (Much like political hearings on Capitol Hill.) At first, I focused on the words said, words typed, and tried with all my might to keep from judging her too harshly. Unfortunately, I already had. What I needed to do, and eventually did, was to avoid focusing on the words, but also make efforts to step back to get the entire picture inside the frame from a different camera angle. When accomplished, I was able to adjust my lens for a broader view to the point where the up close and personal issue, which involved me, became less of the subject in the field of depth. In that way, the view of the world will always develop much better after possessing. It’s an art, don’t you think?
Photo: Chay Garciavia Pexels
While tell you this, I was hit with a biblical hammer. The parable from Jesus, concerning the Good Samaritan, captures much of the same idea. Here is my layman’s modern paraphrased version. PG13…Suitable with the exception of extreme violence and nudity. (LOL)
A poor traveler was beaten, stripped, and robbed by a gang waiting behind the rocks on a path in rugged desert area. They left him half-dead. Soon, a priest came down the same road, saw the distressed wounded traveler and made it a point to look the other way. In doing so, he went to the opposite side of the path to avoid him. Not long after that, a Levite approached. (A Levite was one who lived in the temple in Jerusalem, born to serve in the daily duties of temple business. Much like a monk or nun.) He too, quickly looked the other direction to avoid the traumatized one in need and walked around the naked, wounded traveler while fixing his gaze on the road ahead. A Samaritan man (From a geographical locale called Samaria in mid-Israel.) came down the same road and saw the poor guy. He had pity and compassion on him as he considered his terrible ordeal. Although the victim was left naked, bloody and unable to walk, he immediately gave him first aid as he bandaged him with what little he had. Then he, not caring if he soiled his own clothes, picked the bleeding man up and placed him on his donkey. Not long afterwards they reached a small hotel. He booked a room, taking care of him throughout the overnight. The next day, he found the wounded man was still in no condition to travel. He left him bandaged in his bed. Before leaving, he gave the hotel clerk a generous amount of funds. He instructed the clerk to take care of him. He went on to tell him to supply whatever needs might arise concerning the unfortunate man. He let it be known he would reimburse him for whatever expenses rose above the money offered when he returned from his trip. (Ref. Luke 10:35-37)
Honestly, volumes have been written about the application of this parable. There is so much taught from the tale. As Jesus shared this parable, He was showing the true heart of God and what kind of heart God can place within each of us who are willing. The “holier than thou” clergymen were focused on where they were going, their schedules, and their own concerns. When the two “men of the cloth” saw the poor, broken traveler, they chose not to focus on him, just like the back of the heads of an audience at a Karate demo. Although the victim was right there in their foreground, for them the idea was to keep the vision of him, and his needs, contained in a blurry haze of forgetfulness. The Good Samaritan had a schedule to keep as well. He was also focused on where his destination was, his clock, and the distance ahead. But when he saw the beaten, bloodied traveler, compassion caused him to think to himself, “There but for the grace of God go I.” Suddenly, he adjusted his lens to a sharp, clear focal point on the needs at hand. His new focus allowed him to see clearly what needed to be done for this stranger who owed him nothing. His new focus delivered a bias for action. You might say, he chewed his gum and walked at the same time. It’s clear, his field of depth changed as he refocused.
After I am dead and gone, my three daughters will be going through my photo albums, my plastic tubs of Kodak prints scanning some forty+ years, as well as boxes of snapshots I felt were important to keep. When they do, they might learn far more about what my true focus was in life. Hopefully they will discuss my authentic field of depth.
Focusing on the subject of need isn’t always easy, but it will add to your personal field of depth. The viewfinder is always located in the mixture of fuel for the race.
“Let us fix (focus) our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.” – Hebrews 12:2 (Berean Study Bible Version)
“I Went to a garden party to reminisce with my old friends, a chance to share old memories and play our songs again. When I got to the garden party, they all knew my name. No one recognized me, I didn’t look the same.
But it’s all right now, I learned my lesson well. You see, ya can’t please everyone, so ya got to please yourself.” Garden Party (1972) Written and Recorded by: Ricky Nelson
Did I catch you singing? I know. It’s got a terrific hook on the chorus. Truly, it’s the iconic song Ricky Nelson was known for at that stage of his short life. The lyrics sound as if it was a pleasurable garden party with old famous pals, but it was birthed out of rejection and sourness.
It was October of 1971, the Richard Nader’s Rock ‘n Roll Revival Concert was a huge gathering at Madison Square Garden in New York. It was billed to showcase older American Rock ‘n Roll giants, prior to the British invasion, from the 1950’s and early 1960’s, with acts like Chuck Berry, Fats Domino, Bo Diddley, and Bobby Rydell. They were among many kickin’ it on stage that night. Back stage, and in the audience, the ultra-famous were in attendance from various corners of the entertainment and sports realm. The lyrics in the song, “Garden Party” point that out.
It was his turn at the mic. Ricky Nelson came out on stage in the fashion of the times, bell bottoms, velvet shirt, complete with bell sleeves, and long hair down to his shoulders. Keep in mind, the order of the concert event was to reminisce with early American Rock ‘n Rollers, so the look was expected, too. Well, unfortunately for Nelson, he didn’t take it to heart who the nostalgic demographics were holding tickets. He performed some of his early songs from the late 50’s and early 60’s. But then he played a peculiar country rendition of The Rolling Stones’, “Honky Tonk Woman”. At that, the crowd began to boo, and boo, and booed some more. He wrapped up his set and left the venue, not even waiting to show up for the all-star finale at the end of the night. However, it worked out because he wrote a song about the experience in, “Garden Party”. And I must admit, “…ya can’t please everyone, so ya got to please yourself.”
In the late 1990’s I created an award-winning radio theater department for Criswell Communications Network. I absolutely adored those years writing, acting and building those audio movies. Later, I did the same in Buffalo, NY for the Crawford Broadcasting Network. From time to time I am asked to voice a character for special commercials, promos, or projects. But back then, life got in the way and now it’s been a few years since I was a regular working voice actor.
About a year ago, I was asked to voice a character for a dramatic read of a new novel and CD due to be released simultaneously. Although it was a small walk-on role, I was thrilled to do it. It was like going home again for me, even though I wasn’t the author or director. What was very different, and a bit nerve-racking, was the author himself was in studio with me. Being a hands-on kind of guy, he directed me while I fashioned the vocals needed for this particular character. Don’t get me wrong, the author was/is a terrific guy. I’m sure we will be working together in the future for more projects.
This morning, before I could pour my first cup of java, I got a voicemail. It was the author. He made me aware of the recently released book and audio version. He then invited me to a cast party he was hosting at his very lovely home. I responded before lunch, letting him know how much I enjoyed the recording session, developing the character, and his invitation. Then I politely declined to attend the party. Why, you might ask?
For as long as I can recall, I have never been good at cocktail parties, social dinners, or dances were strangers want me to do the Macarena. Sure, I can act my way through it, which is what I’ve always done, but that’s work, not pleasure, and certainly not comfortable. Being an old stage actor and radio personality, you would think I would be a hoot at a gathering of pre-friends. Trust me, I’ll be the quiet guy in the corner with a china saucer full of chilled shrimp in one hand and a cup of punch in the other. Yes, there’ll be clusters of revelers in a circle laughing, kissing cheeks, along with lines like, “What do you do when you’re not acting?”, or “What a lovely tie. Who are you wearing, sweetie?”, or “So what project are you working on now?” I just don’t mingle well. It’s as simple as that. There, I’ve said it. Arg! I would likely run off stage left like Ricky Nelson.
Cast parties are fine, in fact I have attended lots of them through my acting days, even hosted many myself. Most all cast parties I’ve been a part of were packed with fellow cast-members I had the pleasure of working with face-to-face. Those were actors and crew in which I developed relationships with, or at least decent acquaintances. Those were parties where we could let our hair down and enjoy reminiscing about lines being dropped, favorite scenes, and wardrobe malfunctions. (In 1978, while playing Johnny Brown in The “Unsinkable Molly Brown”, I walked out on stage singing with my fly opened. Thank the Lord it was only a dress rehearsal. Orchestra members noticed it first down in the pit.) Cast parties are always a grand time laced in lots of laughter. Here, the difference is, I never played against another actor in last year’s session. My recorded lines were like a looping studio session where the dialogue was digitally dropped into scenes in post production. There was no actor but me, myself, and I. I played to a mic and a music stand. I never met any of the actors on the bill. To be clear, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that kind of session, it happens more often than not. At the upcoming get-together I would know the author, his wife, and the recording engineer/producer. It’s not that I am really anti-social…or am I? Ouch! What am I admitting?
If you’re a psychologist, you probably know why I am bent this way. The ugly truth is, I am probably afraid of rejection, even eyes of rejection. I’ve been at award shows, green rooms, and backstage at concert venues where you’re chatting with someone who won’t look you in the eye because they’re way too busy scouting out the next celebrity to be cornered. You find yourself answering their question about family, career, or which hotel you’re staying at when suddenly they quickly interrupt with, “Oh, there’s Amy Grant with Vince Gill right behind you. Gotta go.” Is it just me, or is that not rude? I’m guilty of that behavior as well. So awkward. Again, I say, Arg! In the end, I dislike “…players who only love you when they’re playin'” (Fleetwood Mac)
Has it occurred to me that maybe I’m wrong about all this? Maybe by now you’re saying silently, “Hey, this is weird. He needs to loosen up.” Okay, I’ll accept that. But as I’m being super honest with you, hear me out.
To truly engage with another is to be associated with, connected with, to be in tune with the other, even if in a small way. This is me. If you and I are having coffee at a local spot, I will fully hear you, see you, and meld with you. In fact, I like to make people feel that they are the only person in the room, complete with eye-contact and real chuckles, not out of nervous laughter for the sake of sound to fill up dead air. This is how I was raised to believe.
Photo: Wikipedia
Poor Ricky Nelson. Every time I hear “Garden Party” I listen for the rub, the angst, the sore spots between the words. Bottom line, he didn’t “know” his audience. Moreover, he didn’t take in serious consideration of the theme of the event. Of course, the audience lacked true love for Mr. Nelson. They only loved him when he played what he was known for ten years prior. In those quick tunes he scratched their itch until he ventured onto something new from a British band. It was a mismatch moment, a sting he took with him to his grave. He died in a tragic plane crash on New Year’s Eve 14 years later.
In the end, I believe it’s all about “knowing” someone, or at least making faithful efforts in doing so. Because inside that other person is a story which comes from their hearts. A story worth the fidgeting, even if booed. If we “play” at socializing, we do not do justice in the connection. How else will we learn to love others, as God would have us to love?
Still, I remain shy with strangers in close settings. I shared an elevator today where my total sum of verbiage was, “Third floor. Thanks.”
Engaging another may start out with “How are you?”, but if they begin to tell you about their gout, making you’ll want to slip away with, “Ya know, I need a refill.” If so, then where is the honest interest?
More and more I understand why Jesus told us to love others as we love ourselves, and to treat others as we want to be treated.
You know, maybe I should go to the cast party after all. If I do, the boldness won’t come from my clipped persona, but from a deep well of fuel for the race.
“If you love only those people who love you, will God reward you for this? Even tax collectors love their friends.If you greet only your friends, what’s so great about this? Don’t even unbelievers do that?” – Jesus – Matthew 5:46-47 (Contemporary English Version)
“A child is black. A child is white. Together they grow to see the light, to see the light…” (1972) Black & White – Recorded by: Three Dog Night. Composers: David I. Arkin, Earl Robinson.
Appreciation note: A quick thank you to the very kind, Alicia from the blog, For His Purpose for nominating my blog for the Sunshine Blogger Award. I am greatly shocked and humbled. I do enjoy your everyday camera angles of life with the filter of truths.
This will not be a political post. This will not be a ranting post concerning those who play at politics, or the swift blinding blame of another. This will lack the spewing of hatred and emotional blathering of negativity currently blowing across the media. If that’s what feeds you, look elsewhere. However, if you are open-minded, wanting to hop off the meat wagon, serving up all kinds of dangerous rhetoric currently being wielded like a Gladius sword, you are welcome to read below.
Billy Boyd was my best friend in 7th grade. In those times that was our first year at Dillingham Jr. High School, before “middle school” was introduced. We lived in Sherman, Tx where the west side of town was mainly made up of white population. There was also the east side where the African American community settled, or was made to settle in post-Civil War days. Dillingham Jr. High was situated close to the border of the east and west sides of the medium market town. We met on our first day of the new school year.
When we left our elementary schools to enter 7th grade, it was a cultural shock for all of the student body. Obviously my elementary school consisted of mostly white kids. At Dillingham the heavy black and white mix was a first for all of us. Billy was African American from the east side of the tracks. He was my first black school friend ever. At the time I really thought nothing about it. In fact, I thought it was cool to have a black friend who was my age.
What I didn’t expect, nor every experienced before, was racial name-calling, slurs, racial riots on campus, gang violence, and violent ambushes. (Forgive me for giving too much info here, but I must write it.) As a white kid relieving himself at the urinal, I was kicked in the back from time to time. Once, I was slammed in the back of my head with a football helmet while standing there facing the wall. This was the environment I was introduced to. Billy didn’t have anything to do with the vicious tagging of white kids. I was on the sharp end of the above racial abuses in a big way simply because I was a white kid from the west side. There were attacks I received in the hallways, between buildings, after football practice, and after school on my way across campus to the bike rack. Some of these were 15 and 16 years old students who were still repeating 7th or 8th grades. I received threats concerning my dog and my mom. In that school year, I learned how to box and street fight the hard way. My uncle taught me how to box, and another friend trained me in Aikido that same year. Through it all, Billy and I remained friends. You might say we were the odd couple. After the school year slowly dropped me into the summer break, my mom relocated out of town, and just in time. Only God knows what might have been if I had spent another year in racial turmoil. However, the hatred and bigotry had a profound influence on me. But, I would experience it again.
When I was a toddler, 98 years after slavery ended in the U.S., I met my first African American. (I have written about him before, but it’s been a couple of years.) While visiting my grandparents in Greenville, Tx, every-other Saturday they had their lawn work done by an elderly black man named Mr. Amos. To this day I don’t know if that was a surname or his first name. No doubt he was the son of slaves, living in the far east side of Greenville in a sector notable for the African American neighborhood. I recall there being a side street which served as the border between whites and blacks, as it was set-up by the local government leaders in the late 1800’s.
From my toddler days, all the way to 11 years old or so, I LOVED old Mr. Amos. I saw him as an uncle from another grandmother. The neighborhood in those days would remind you of the street scenes from the movie, To Kill A Mockingbird. He would drag his lawn mower down the street cutting grass and hedges for a few dollars. To see him was like imagining Mr. Bojangles in various ways. He was ragged, skinny, and toughened by the years. His very dark skin was weathered and rough from a lifetime of working in the Texas sun, like leather from an old baseball glove. He always had an old rag, or bandanna hanging out his back pants pocket, along with old worn-out hard-soled leather lace-up shoes. The elderly man always did a wonderful job on the lawn and hedges. He had the talent. Whenever I was there, I would watch him out my grandparent’s front window as he worked his fingers to the bone with pride. I never saw anyone sweat as much as he did. When he finished the front lawn he began to pull his mower up the driveway toward the backyard. From the time I was 3, my grandmother would take an ice cold, frosted bottle of Dr. Pepper out of the fridge, pop open the cap with the bottle opener, which hung on her kitchen wall, hand it to me and say, “Alan, you go give this to poor Mr. Amos.” Wrapped around it was the money he earned. (They were very liberal with the payment.) I would grin from ear to ear as I ran outside before he reached the back. There in my Buster Browns I proudly said in my Mickey Mouse voice, “Here ya go, Mr. Amos!” No matter how often our encounters, he always acted surprised as he shook my hand and replied with his gruff voice, “Well, what’s this here? (chuckle) Why…thank ya, son!” When in my earlier age, I would look at the palm of my hand to see if the black color rubbed off his sweating hand. I kid you not, he never took his mouth off the bottle until it was turned upside-down and empty, without taking a breath. There’s no way I could do that. I would watch him drink in shear amazement. Handing the empty bottle back to me, he would exhale with a huge drawn-out gasp, like a swimmer coming up for air and say, “That’s my boy!” I always waited to hear him say those words. It made my day. He didn’t know it but just saying that to this fatherless lad made me feel warm inside. With his statement of gratitude, I ran back in to tell my grandmother once again, how he called me “son” and what’s more, I was “his boy”. I honored and respected him. Through the years of youth, I wondered why he always looked so poor.
I’m not certain what year it was, but I will say I was 13 (1973) when hatred came calling.
Mr. Amos was in my grandparent’s yard, doing his job one Saturday, when he was suddenly interrupted by his son and daughter-in-law who had pulled up in the driveway. The man was angry with his father for mowing the lawns of “Honkies”. (It’s a name I was familiar with from school. I didn’t believe Mr. Amos thought I was one of those.) Mr. Amos protested saying he was doing his purpose in that stage of his life. The voices got louder as they argued in the side yard. I pressed my ear to the nearest window to hear more clearly what was being said. The son of Mr. Amos spewed about how shameful it was to be “workin’ for the white man” and how embarrassed he was to see him on our lawn in the “white part of town”. My granddad came out to see what the issue was. After he was told, my granddad gently explained to Mr. Amos that it was okay if he needed to go and do what he thought was right. Sheepishly looking down at his tired scuffed shoes, Mr. Amos agreed he should load-up and go with his son. Hearing it my heart broke. My granddad paid him in full, even though the job wasn’t completed, then they drove away. I was highly disturbed. Tears rolled down my freckled cheeks at what I had witnessed. That was the last time I saw Mr. Amos after knowing him through 9-10 years of my childhood.
I had a friend like Billy, as well as a man of grit and heart like Mr. Amos for one reason. Early on my mom had coded within me, from the days of Mr. Amos, to love all people, regardless of their skin hues. As a little one, she read the words of Jesus to me at bedtime where He taught what she preached to me. What she didn’t teach at the time was the perspectives and inward struggles some possess, like the son of Mr. Amos.
Still, I came away from my experiences at Dillingham with a chip on my shoulder, combined with an unjustified angst against black people. In fact, the realities left me unwilling to trust African Americans for many years throughout much of the 1970’s until I got the chance to work and worship alongside African Americans from 1979 and onward.
In these days where racial slurs, alongside accusations of racism, are being tossed around like confetti, there’s a warning for us all. When young men soak up vile, filthy hatred from certain websites, or chat rooms brainwashing them to the point of mass murdering another race due to their ethnicity alone, we should take note. Words are like bullets. Enough of them, combined with a deadly spin, will and do rip open the hearts of our youth. Good parenting is so vital. Compassionate parenting is so vital. Informative parenting is so vital. So often these word-projectiles reverberate through the rooms of the home for little ears to plant in the fertile soil of their souls. Each and every community and culture should surgically remove attitudes of hate-filled, damning speech about our neighbors. If not, the next generation will see domestic death, domestic destruction and possibly war. There is a desensitizing which is slow, like marinating a pork loin. Sleeping with the pigs will make you muddy. And oh, how dark that mud can be.
If you dare, journey with me for a moment on the following hypothetical.
If one leans toward Darwinism, and sees another race as beneath their own DNA, then one must ask how it got to such a point. If we, collectively, all derived from an ancient amoeba, which washed up on a beach in ions past, then how can one defend a racial ideology? Maybe the ancient amoeba community rioted against other amoeba of a different thickness of cell wall. Then again, can an amoeba possess hate? Unfortunately, hate is branded in humankind exclusively. There’s a reason for that. Follow me on this.
As we continue to search for the “Missing Link” (still missing), there’s a newer, more popular theory.
If one leans toward the newer idea that humanity was placed here by ancient aliens from another planet, there’s even a bigger leap to make. I suppose it’s plausible ancient aliens also suffered from racism, implanting that curse on the earth as we were left here to populate the world. It would also seem plausible that such an advance interstellar civilization would’ve been cautious to populate the earth with beings like themselves, assuring racism wouldn’t be introduced. If the theory is accurate, then wouldn’t it make sense they would sprout beings which reflected a visual likeness? If so, why do have racial issues at all?
If you come from a biblical world view, as I do, then how can I ever hold to a twisted view of racial hatred? Since I am a creationist, I read and study the account where we were all created in the image of God, a likeness of the Divine. Therefore, how could I ever look at a black, brown, yellow, or red man or woman crying, “Moron!”, “Mistake!”“Mutant” or “Monstrosity!” Racism dictates that you have cheap blood and I do not. But, I’ll take your kidney, or a transfusion if I need one. Cheap? Really? For me, scripture reveals we all came from a set of flesh and blood ancient parents who had a multitude of offspring, and so on. Genesis has the genealogy listed covering about a two thousand year span complete with names, nations and seasons of geology. Even DNA experts have found the evidence which mirrors this view. Within the last few years DNA studies have shown we come from the same part of the world with ancestry funneling into a clan going back to the beginnings of life itself, matching the Genesis timeline. So, why do we, or why should we have this scent of racism?
Let’s be super honest here. I like to call balls and strikes as I see them.
Racism, at its core, is the belief in a lie. Yep, we’ve been snookered.
“…Mmm, no no Lyin’ to the races Help me, come on, come on Somebody, help me now (I’ll take you there)…” (1972) “I’ll Take You There” by: The Staple Singers
Moreover, racism is an ideology which dictates thoughts of I, me and myself am to reign over another due to my skin pigmentation. The lie woos one to beliefs like; if one is darker, or lighter skinned than I, then that person is to be subordinate to me, simply due to color. It even can get down to the shape of a skull, or the nose. Racism methodically massages the mind and heart of the pre-white supremacist, for example, who will claim God made a mistake by creating black, brown, yellow, and red skin. Unfortunately, even shades of skin tones are targets of racial darts. In addition, let’s not forget the racism within the color spectrum itself. English vs Celts, Anglo Gentiles vs Jews, African tribes vs other African tribes, the list goes on. Furthermore, it revels in the false idea which says a particular race was created to be supreme over all peoples, nations, societies and cultures. If one hears it enough, studies it enough, sniffs the belly of the dragon enough, the ideology is perceived as authentic. Just as evil thoughts grow and widen, hatred begins to fester like Multiple Myeloma which eats away at the bones. Racism eats away at the very soul of a person.
Are you still with me? Can I go a step further?
Let’s say you are one who believes in the afterlife. Maybe it’s a belief that the spirit, once separated from its body, roams the earth as a ghostly individual, for whatever purpose. If you were a racist in the flesh, how do you exercise racism in the spirit world? When there’s a failure to control the body in life, how then do we expect to control and navigate our spirits? Interesting thought. Are we suddenly stronger and wiser in spirit than we were when we had flesh? After death the skin, once proudly admired as a trophy in life, grows pale and decays, falling away from the skeleton, which is the same color as all skeletons. So now, in spirit form, how do you rant and rave over other spirits who have no skin color? In spirit form, racism is also dead. Suddenly, racist views are no longer so important. In the end, the 79 year old racist can look back on his/her earthly life and will see the damning foolishness of a faulty ideology.
Let’s say you have a biblical perspective of the afterlife. In the place described so well in scripture as heaven, there are a number of problems if racism is to continue. First, God says haters (which includes racist users) will not see the kingdom of heaven. Secondly, in this present age, there is the spiritual form left after the body fails. How, as an eternal racist, do you push back on another spirit residing in God’s Kingdom? Thirdly, the ancient text is clear on the following. There will come a time in eternity when the old earthly body will be recreated to reunite with the spirit in which it once belonged, much like the resurrection of Jesus. God does the recreation at His sovereign will. Colors or not, He will do what He plans. Whatever skin color, if any at all, is resurrected in God’s timeline. At that point, how could hatred of it exist? Fourthly, in heaven there is no spirit who will submit to another based on color of robe, earthly ethnicity, or thought. Jesus Himself said there’s only One Who reigns in heaven. All is made new in the afterlife, if with God. In Paul’s writings, he mentions that “in Christ” there is no difference in “Jew or Gentile”, “slave or free”, “male or female”, etc. THAT is God’s view of the color spectrum of the souls He created and saw it to be good. Racism is NOT eternal. What does that tell us about the perceived value and validation of racial disharmony in life today?
Racism will always be with us. The seed is there in this imperfect world. It was introduced by God’s adversary early in human history to distort the mind’s view of every created race. It is the management of it which must be priority. If the lion is not tamed, it will eat the foolish ringmaster.
The shooter in El Paso, Texas believed a racial lie. In his manifesto he wrote of multiple issues which pushed him over the edge like, plastic in the oceans, immigration flow, economics, eco-system, etc. But, in the end, his frustrations were decidedly poured out over helpless Hispanics with intention. The shooter in Dayton, OH and the shooter at the Garlic Festival in Gilroy, California were driven by hate, even though it appears not to be racially motivated. As a result, many were brutally murdered and maimed. It’s a seeded lie laced by the enemy of the human brotherhood of soul and spirit. Police in Gilroy reported the shooter there wore a clown mask. Appropriate, don’t you think?
Please accept this warning. Those who ricochet darts coming from the mouths of haters, is a very dangerous thing. Wars have been launched for far less. Unfortunately many like the shooters of El Paso, Dayton, and Gilroy are weak-minded, easily influenced, or simply mentally ill. They are like a weed bending to a dark wind from whichever direction. The result is, “I AM DOMINATE!” For some, all it will take is a spewing of hate-filled venom to cause the voices to ring violence in their minds. Once it takes hold, it is like the gravity of opium to the offender. If it’s not an assault rifle, it will be a bomb, a poison, a chemical, a blade, a flip of a rail switch, a van, a bus, a truck, a water bottle full of gasoline, etc.
Love, compassion, and understanding will always been the answer. In fact, love is the basis found in fuel for the race.
“You’re familiar with the command to the ancients, ‘Do not murder.’ I’m telling you that anyone who is so much as angry with a brother or sister is guilty of murder. Carelessly call a brother ‘idiot!’ and you just might find yourself hauled into court. Thoughtlessly yell ‘stupid!’ at a sister and you are on the brink of hellfire. The simple moral fact is that words kill. – Jesus – Matthew 5:21-22 (MSG Version)
“Farewell, Irene, where your dreams abound…You dream of the north, Irene. Well then that’s where you oughta be…” (2016) Irene. Recorded and composed by: Courtney Marie Andrews
WARNING:
As I introduce you to my fabulous cousin, Irene, allow me to lay down a teaser right here. In a few lines I will deliver a shocker, a twist in my spotlighting of this precious and beloved lady.
When I think of cousins, my memory projects mental Super 8 footage of summer days chasing each other with water guns. I have snapshots in my childhood haze riding double on horses, bareback through the pastures. Notably, there’s always visions of playground swings, chasing the ice cream truck down the street, family reunions in the park, and visiting our grandparents together. Cousins were, and are, so much fun.
Entering stage left, my cousin, Irene.
When I was little, I had trouble calling her, “Irene”. My understanding the word, “Ring” came out of my mouth. I was able to overcome that problem.
Over the Easter weekend, the old band got together for a bit of a reunion performance for a Messianic Passover event way north of our home in Dallas. For a Texan, Oklahoma is north-enough. I drove myself up to Enid, Oklahoma, in the northwestern part of the state, for our musical adventure. The long drive gave me lots of time to freshen up my vocals before arriving at the venue in the late afternoon. We had played there two years ago. At that time, after a Facebook posting about the gig in Enid, my cousin, Irene, replied with a tad of chastisement for not informing her. It was my mistake in that I was under the impression she and her husband resided in southwestern Oklahoma, closer to Altus where her mom lived. Turns out, she lives closer to the Kansas/Oklahoma border, in Tonkawa, OK, just another thirty miles or so north of my turn-off for Enid. So, I promised her then I would contact her ahead of time if I’m in that area again. As you can see, we finally got together. Here’s the beauty with two of her pals and my ugly mug.
(We have Cherokee in our family tree. The features show up so much more through her branch of the family. Her mother, my Aunt Evelyn, was very much the same way.)
Although we had kept in touch over the decades, it was always through emails, texts, and Facebook. Rarely were we hanging out for family picnics. Literally, the last time we physically sat together was at our uncle’s memorial service in 1977. It’s such a shame to only see the ones you love at times of sorrow. Do you know what I mean?
What a terrific visit. It’s amazing what you can learn about others when you actually sit and talk face to face. I knew she was an artist, photographer, and an avid activist, a gifted musician, but there’s so much more to my cousin, Irene than I once knew. Part of her artwork is landscaping. Her property is a testament to the fact.
I must say, it’s vastly different from the natural brush country in that part of the state. She’s turned it into a showplace. It reminded me so much of the Dallas Arboretum Park. (Google for photos.) Truly a professional would be amazed.
Part of her array of gifts surrounds being active in charity work and fundraisers. She has donated many items for local charity auctions. One of the things she is known for is her artwork on chairs. You saw the cover photo at the top, by the title, of her in action. Here’s another example of her artsy eye on old unwanted furnishings.
(Collaboration Art by: Irene Ackerson & Gene Doughtery)
These chairs go for a few hundred dollars at various auctions. You can see why.
Irene stays very busy. She is well traveled and well educated. She and her husband were teachers, loving the craft of education. She is a talented canvas painter. An active animal lover, Irene rescues dogs, as well as, dog-sitting for others in the community. Somehow she walks multiple dogs at the same time. I struggle walking two of them. My dear cousin collects items of interest, much in the realm of artwork, from all over the world, decorating her home with such. She’s a volunteer for civic and church events. She can be found in the throws of various social and charitable occasions. She probably makes animal balloons, too. These are just some of the things I have missed out on in not getting to know her better.
We both have a good sense of humor, which has been handed down through our family tree. One day, back in the 90’s, she got a real kick when I called her the “Kate Jackson (Charlie’s Angels) of our family.” The resemblance was authentic. There was a lot of truth to my title for her when we were younger.
(Irene with her oldest son, Jeff.)
Now for the twister of this story about my cousin, Irene. We never played in the playground swings together. We never rode bareback horses through the Texas pastures. We never chased down the ice cream truck. Irene and I never once shot each other with water guns. It’s certainly not because she lived so far north from my stomping grounds. So what’s the mystery?
If you have seen my Facebook page, (Connect with me anytime – Alan Brown, Carrollton, Texas.) then you know she’s not shy about her age. In a recent public post on my Facebook page, Irene mentioned the occasion where we first met. In fact, there is a photo of the moment, which currently I cannot locate in my stacks of family photos. It was 1964. I was four years old, shaking hands with Irene, the beautiful bride!!! (YES, scroll back up for another look at us from Easter weekend.) Irene is actually my mom’s cousin, my 2nd cousin. Not willing to publish her actual age, I will reveal that I will turn 59 in a few days, and Irene is two years older than my mom! Maybe I should add, she’s never had work done. (Haha)
Let it be known, she can run circles around me. We had a very sharp aunt who lived to be 103 who walked faster than I did.
Truly, there’s lots to be said about staying active. There’s lots to be said about keeping the mind youthful and open. There’s lots to be said about nurturing the body, and keeping it moving. Irene has done all of that, and more.
I also think love has much to do with the “youthening” process. Do you agree? Have you noticed? Irene pours out love for others as a way of life, including the animal kingdom. I believe those who chew on hate have bitter, shortened lives. Frankly, that is a biblical concept.
Jesus taught to love one another as we love ourselves. He also went further. He taught we should love the ones we perceive as outcasts, or socially despised. He said so because that is how God loves. In following suit, we find life to be more palatable altogether. Life is sweeter when my mind chooses to love those I normally might not even notice.
Maybe Irene’s teaching days aren’t over. Turns out, I’ve learned a few things observing our Irene.
Love and youthful endurance are grand products of fuel for the race.
“Yet those who wait for the Lord will gain new strength; They will mount up with wings like eagles. They will run and not get tired. They will walk and not become weary.” – Isaiah 40:31 (NASB)
Fuel For The Race 