might be baloney

Church office staffs answer a lot of phone calls. Those calls cover a wide range of needs. But without question, the toughest calls are the out of the blue ones when a member calls to report the unexpected passing of a loved one.

That happened on Thursday, November 2 for a church member and her family. Their 39-year-old son had passed away. No accident related to a vehicle or job, no medical failure, no crime incident had taken his life— no it was that old demon of darkness.

Despite a loving family and appropriate care the demon revved up the pressure one evening. The wiring in the brain snapped. He made a decision. There was no turning back.

That battle with the demon is relentless. It’s the demon’s bag of tricks and the mind games that wear a person down. Moments of calm happiness can instantly be disrupted pushing rational thought and reasoning aside. Pressure builds, practical options become impractical, and the point of no return becomes the focus.

This young man had been battling the demon for a while. Pockets of success were countered with pockets of misery. All of those ups and downs only serve to frazzle a person even more.

Those unexpected losses have hit close to home during the last few years. The demon of darkness took my wife’s oldest sister, a peer from my days as an educator, and a neighbor’s brother.

Stories of such losses are all around us.

Author Tom Wolfe’s book The Right Stuff was made into a movie of the same title. Wolfe’s book reveals the development of America’s space program, and carefully acknowledges the courageous test pilots who placed their lives in danger chasing a different type of demon.

The opening scene in the movie features a narration of screenwriter, Philip Kaufman’s words. Black and white film images of tarmacs filled with ground crews, pilots, and airplanes immediately capture the viewer.

Here are Kaufman’s words:

“There was a demon that lived in the air. They said whoever challenged him would die. Their controls would freeze up, their planes would buffet wildly, and they would disintegrate. The demon lived at Mach 1 on the meter, 750 miles an hour, where the air could no longer move out-of-the-way. He lived behind a barrier through which they said no man could ever pass. They called it: The sound barrier. Then, they built a small plane, the X1, to try and break the sound barrier. And men came to the High Desert in California to ride it. They were called test pilots. And no one knew their names.”

I think our church member’s son experienced a similar torment from the demon.

In his 39 years of living, I’m sure our church friend’s son challenged the demon. But a human being’s controls can freeze up too. The turbulence of day-to-day living can cause uncontrollable buffeting. That buffeting creates an inability to ride life any longer.

According to data from the National Institute of Health, in 2015 suicide was the tenth leading cause of death in the United States. That same year, there were 44,193 suicides compared to 17,793 homicides. During the past 15 years, suicide rates have increased 24%.

Clearly, suicide is a demon. It is a demon that needs to be reeled in and confronted. We only need to look at the mental health needs of those individuals who have initiated horrific violence in our public schools and work places.

Mental health practitioners have made significant improvements in treatment options. Unfortunately, our health care system isn’t always cooperative in helping individuals find the appropriate treatment options, and then there is that demon.

That demon is always pushing, probing, looking for the slightest opening. The demon is impatient. This tormentor works tirelessly with a stubborn tenacity for one singular purpose— to claim another human being.

As a society, we need to be just as persistent in countering the demon’s tactics. Nonprofits like the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention are working to educate and to guide individuals and their families toward helpful services.

I can only imagine what it feels like to be pursued by the demon, and I can only imagine what it is like for a family member to observe the demon’s intrusion into the life of a loved one.

Our church member felt like her son was finally at peace when he brought his life to an end.

Interesting that we can build just the right plane to break that demon in the sky, the sound barrier. And yet, we still struggle to meet the mental health needs of individuals who are trying to break through another challenging barrier.

Perhaps verse 10 from Chapter 19 of Job captures what it must feel like to be at that barrier with the demon for a tormented son or daughter and their family:  “He breaks me down on every side, and I am gone, he has uprooted my hope like a tree.”

Even in these difficult circumstances when the demon uproots our hope, we must regroup.

That tormentor’s barrier needs to be broken down on every side too.

If we lose our courage and hope, then the demon will continue to win.

We can’t let that happen. Everyone deserves to reach 40.

Challenge the demon.

Two mornings a week, just after 5, I’m usually at the Tuckahoe YMCA working out. Most people with an ounce of common sense are back at home still sleeping.

In a hallway connector at the Y are two vending machines. At the bottom of each machine printed in bold letters are the following words:  Make Change.

On the morning of Tuesday, October 17, I walked into the exercise room that I have used for many years, and I immediately noticed the room had been changed, rearranged.

I felt out of place. In truth I was boiling on the inside.  My exercise room worked perfectly for me. I had no complaints. Why make such a drastic rearrangement?

And to make this change even worst, I hadn’t been consulted. No one asked for my permission to make these changes. Of all the nerve rearranging my exercise room without my blessing.

My workout was awkward. This rearrangement had disrupted my normal routine.

A couple of staff members walked into the room, and I expressed my displeasure of this new layout. As I was leaving the building, I picked up the contact information for the director of this YMCA branch. Boy was she going to hear from me!

“The Horse Trader” episode of the Andy Griffith Show has a classic opening scene.

Sheriff Andy Taylor and his deputy, Barney Fife, are preparing to attend a town council meeting. On the agenda is a pending decision about Mayberry’s old cannon. The town council believes the worn out cannon has become an eyesore. They want to remove it.

In their pre-meeting conversation, Andy detects that Barney doesn’t like change.   In fact, Barney admits, “that he likes for things to stay the same.”

Barney shares a story about the installation of a stamp selling machine at the Mayberry post office.

This new machine just “frosted” Barney. He was so agitated that he composed a letter to the post master general. But Barney admits, he never mailed the letter because he refused to purchase a stamp from the automated machine.

Perhaps, like Barney and me you struggle with that six letter word—“change.”

Someday, I might hear this little dab of humor from a grandchild:

My granddaughter was visiting one day when she asked, “Grandpa, do you know how you and God are alike?”

 “No, how are we alike?”  “You’re both old,” she replied.

That wisdom from a child holds true based upon my second visit to the YMCA after the rearrangement.

I learned from one of the employees what he had observed. He had been keeping tabs on how members who use this room felt about their disruption. His informal survey simply concluded: young members like the new layout and older members dislike it.

I’ll be 65 in June; I’m one of those older members. And yes, I was shocked by the rearrangement, and yes, I wrote an e-mail to the director, explaining why I disliked the layout.

To the director’s credit, she quickly responded and offered to meet with me. But, I don’t think I’ll take her up on a meeting. Here’s why, I was looking at this change strictly from the “me” perspective.

All I selfishly thought about was how this change was impacting “me.” Why had “my” exercise room been rearranged? Why did the leadership disrupt “my” routine? I wasn’t considering that the room belongs to the YMCA, and it is used by members from all age groups, not just rapidly aging whiny grumps like “me”.

In fact, I imagine the good Lord is about ready to whack me with a 2×4, by referring me to Galatians Chapter 4 Verse 20:  “I wish I were present with you now and could change my tone, for I am perplexed about you.”

I can understand why the good Lord would be perplexed by me, and my tone.

Here’s why.

If I think about all of the people in this world whose lives have been recently disrupted with hurricanes, earthquakes, wildfires, and reckless political regimes, I should be ashamed of my pitiful workout room grumbling.

American author E.B. White once stated: “The only sense that is common in the long run is the sense of change and we all instinctively avoid it.”

I’ll see the words Make Change on those YMCA vending machines every morning after I complete my workout.

What am I going to do with that reminder?

Am I going to continue to perplex the good Lord by instinctively avoiding change?

Or, am I going to disrupt my life for the benefit of those truly in need?

I know what my answer should be.

In the fall semester of my sophomore year of college, I was enrolled in a biology class. The professor, Dr. Kemper Callahan, was a legend in the science department and on campus. His appearance alone signaled toughness: crew cut, square jaw, broad shoulders, and a chest like a stout oak tree.

I started out strong in the class, but by Thanksgiving break, I was struggling, and he sensed it.

Since I lived in North Carolina, I didn’t cut his class on the day before Thanksgiving. I was looking for brownie points, but I don’t think Dr. Callahan believed in them.

Dr. Callahan’s lecture that morning was on one level a chewing out for the poor performance on the second round of testing, but the other part of the lecture was a timely brain shaker about Thanksgiving.  In his own unique way, Dr. Callahan helped me to realize some things about Thanksgiving that I had always taken for granted.

The lecture focused us to think about all the people who are working behind the scenes to make a Thanksgiving meal happen for our families.

He started with farmers, and a simple statement: no farmers, no Thanksgiving. Next, he referenced the labor it takes to harvest, prep, and transport these food items to market, and the connection to all of the personnel in the stores and markets where our purchases are made. Finally, he affirmed our families, and the hands that prepare the food with just the right seasonings.

In less than an hour, Dr. Callahan had informed our class how lucky we were to have the things that we take for granted at Thanksgiving. And as he finished, I clearly remember his parting shot to the class, “Now get out of here.”

As a former high school English teacher, I had the privilege of sharing with my students the O’Henry short story “Two Thanksgiving Day Gentlemen.” As an author, O’ Henry, developed a reputation for stories with an unexpected twist at the end.

In this story, the main character, the Old Gentleman, has established a tradition of making sure a less fortunate person in this case, Stuffy Pete, has a full Thanksgiving meal. For nine Thanksgivings, the Old Gentleman encounters Stuffy Pete and walks him to a restaurant and watches him shove in the food.

For this Thanksgiving, upon the conclusion of the meal, Stuffy Pete thanks the Old Gentlemen, and they go their separate ways. A few hours later, unbeknownst to each other they both end up in the hospital: Stuffy Pete from overeating and the Old Gentlemen from not eating for three days.

Filmmaker, John Hughes, captures the struggles of two businessmen in the movie Planes, Trains, and Automobiles who are trying to get home for Thanksgiving. Neal, portrayed by Steve Martin, and Del Griffith, played by John Candy, are linked to a series of travel snafus that put these two opposite personalities together in the quest to reach Chicago.

It is quite a road trip for Neal and Del, but a very revealing one for Neal who finally realizes that Del has no family and no place to be for Thanksgiving. So Neal returns to the train platform where he left Del, and Neal invites Del to come home with him for Thanksgiving.

I often wonder what pushed Dr. Callahan to lecture us about the people who really make Thanksgiving happen. Perhaps, O’ Henry wanted to illustrate to his readers the sacrifice one character was willing to make for the benefit of another. With Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, maybe John Hughes was attempting to demonstrate how our encounters with strangers have the capacity to transform.

Each Thanksgiving, Dr. Callahan’s lecture rattles in my brain, my willingness to assist others increases, and I tend to be more sensitive to the needs of strangers.

Perhaps the real question for me is why can’t I be all of those things year round, not just at Thanksgiving?

Well, I think the answer is my heart needs more transforming, like the change found in Ezekiel 36:26: “A new heart I will give you, and a new spirit I will put within you; and I will remove from your body the heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.”

On a perfect October afternoon, I finally had an upclose view of the office, my mother’s brother, James Samuel Harrod, occupied during World War II. Sam’s office space was the tail gunner position on an US Army Air Corp bomber, the B-24.

Courtesy of the Collings Foundation, a P-51 fighter, and three bombers, a B-17, a B-24, and a B-25, had been flown into the Chesterfield County Airport. This was a part of the 2017 Wings of Freedom Tour.

Started in 1979, the Collings Foundation is a nonprofit. Their goal “is to organize and support “living history” events and the presentation of historical artifacts and content that enable Americans to learn more about their heritage through direct participation.”

As soon as my 86-year-old neighbor, Tiff Graham, a Korean War Navy veteran, and I arrived at the airport, and I saw those planes parked on the tarmac— I knew we were going to learn a lot.

At the gate, we were greeted by members of the Wings of Freedom Tour, where we paid our admission. Also, sitting at the gate was my church friend, Bill Owen, who had served his country in World War II learning to fly the P-51 and the B-25.

The P-51 was our first stop. Gleaming in the warm October sun, this single engine fighter looked sleek and powerful. Decorated test pilot, Chuck Yeager, flew the P-51 in World War II. The cockpit area had been retrofitted with a narrow passenger seat behind the pilot. This allows Collings’ pilots for a fee to take a person up into the wild blue yonder.

Next was the B-17, a massive plane called the Flying Fortress. There was a line waiting to tour the interior of the B-17, so we admired its exterior features and strength. Four barrel sized engines with large, perfectly milled propellers made up its wing span. One of the B-17s from World War II was nicknamed the “Memphis Belle,” and its crew’s journey into the war was twice made into movies.

A shorter line was assembled outside the B-24 so we walked over.

Built by the Consolidated Aircraft Corporation, the B-24 Liberator, was also a workhorse. Designed with a wingspan of 110 feet and powered by four Pratt and Whitney 1200 horsepower engines, the B-24 was no pushover. It carried a crew of ten with eleven .50 machine guns.

The contrast in design between the B-17 and B-24 were clear, but both were built to deliver a punch, and they did.

Tiff and I surveyed the exterior of the B-24, and although still nimble at 86, he opted not to enter the narrow confines of the plane.

Prior to my walk through, I had looked carefully at the tail gunner’s position. At the back of the fuselage tucked between two tall stabilizers was the space for the tail gunner. For sure it was a strategic point of protection for the B-24.

From this perch, I imagine the tail gunner had a spectacular panoramic view. But that view was quickly forgotten during those intense encounters with enemy fighter planes and heavy artillery firing from the ground.

I entered the plane and took a few steps toward the back where the tail gunner was positioned. That section of the plane had limited access. I was not able to walk further into the plane for a closer look of where Sam was stationed. But I can report this, getting to the glass enclosed area was extremely narrow, and it was amazing that he could squeeze his body into the turret.

Like his mother and two sisters, Sam was short in stature, but big in heart. I remember he had a wonderful sense of humor, an incredible work ethic, and a silent fortitude. I think his resilience came from how his mother reacted to her children being deserted by their father in Mississippi. Like the heartwood from a persimmon tree, that desertion created in Sam an unspoken toughness.

My mother and grandmother never allowed me to talk with Sam about his experiences with the B-24. In fact, I checked that with my cousin, Sam, who was named after his father. My cousin confirmed there was no conversation about World War II, and upon reflection, Sam thinks of his father as “the greatest man I never knew.”

Following my experience seeing the B-24, I alerted Sam and his sister, Pam, that the Wings of Freedom tour was headed to Burlington, North Carolina where we all grew up. They were able to make it to the airport for a tour.

For my cousin, Sam, the viewing and walk through was very emotional. This too was his first visit with a B-24.

As he studied his father’s position, his first thought was “the tail gunner was a sitting duck.” This visit answered a question about whether the tailgunner stood or sat, and in this case he sat. The longer he inspected the interior of the plane, the more my cousin marveled that the plane and personnel survived their missions.

Sam revealed that his father had kept a diary for each of the 35 missions that his plane flew in the Pacific. We know he was in the 868th Bomber Squadron H. This squadron had the nickname of “the snoopers”, and the plane depending upon handwriting interpretation was named either Lady June or Lady Jane.

The diary captured much detail including flight times, how many rounds Sam spent firing at the enemy, bombs dropped, and a bomb dropping mistake. While flying over the Makassar Strait, a submarine was sighted, a bomb was dropped, and sadly it was an American sub.

The US Army Air Corp set a requirement for heavy bomber crews to complete 25 missions. After reaching that goal, crews were eligible to return home.

My uncle’s diary clearly states he completed 35 missions aboard a B-24. According to my cousin, his father attributed this extension to backed up paperwork. Backed up paperwork or not, extending the risks associated with 10 more missions only serves to remind me this was truly the “greatest generation.”

As I was leaving the tail section of the B-24, a grandfather and his grandson were ahead of me. There was a narrow gangway to walk on through the bomb bay section of the plane.

As the grandfather was helping his grandson to carefully navigate the gangway, one of the engines on the B-25 bomber was fired up. The B-25 was further down the tarmac. A mechanic was trying to make adjustments to the left engine.

This sound startled the youngster with fear. He thought one of the B-24 engines had been started. The grandson was in panic, he cried assuming the plane he was touring was about to take off. His grandfather attempted to reassure him, but he had been unnerved.

And speaking of nerves, I don’t know how the crews of these warplanes did it. They knew what a mission entailed. Yet, day after day, they climbed in, took off, fulfilled the mission, and if they were lucky returned to their bases.

I can’t imagine what was going through the crew’s minds, nor can I imagine being a parent back in the states.

My uncle Sam survived the war.

And it is probably good that I never had a conversation with him about his office space in the B-24. He kept those stories humbly tucked away, and that was the right thing to do. Even now as an adult, I’m challenged to fully comprehend what Sam experienced.

On May 14, 1989, my uncle left this world bound for another flight in the wild blue yonder. That day, the ride was a lot calmer, and the good Lord knows he earned.

This Veterans Day make sure you take the time to thank a Veteran.

And hold close to your heart these words from Romans 12:18: “If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.”

A few years ago, my college roommate who is a minister told me about the Alban Institute. Now a part of the Divinity School at Duke University, I subscribe to Alban’s weekly e-newsletter. This newsletter does exactly what their website proclaims: leaders connect and learn from one another by sharing practical wisdom, stories of thriving congregations and transformational models of ministry.

Earlier this spring via Alban, the following headline caught my attention: Interested in writing a better 1000 word personal essay? Register for How to Tell Your Story. This was an on-line class offered by the editors of Faith and Leadership’s e-magazine.

Over the last several years, I have been devoting more time to tinkering with words. I enjoy writing, and this class was designed to help individuals take their writing to the next level.

For me, this meant learning how to improve my very limited publication success. I wanted to see if my skills had the potential to push beyond my current threshold. So, I registered for the class.

Soon orientation information arrived about the technology we would be using. I found this to be a bit of a challenge as my computer skills are very basic. Additionally, we were asked to reach out to our classmates in a “getting to know you” session.

During the month of May, our class met on Wednesdays from 1-2 p.m. Each session was led by two editors from Faith and Leadership. Topics were linked to the class goal of helping us to craft our own 1000 word personal essay.

Also, we had the opportunity via technology to ask questions, and interact with the leaders and classmates. A weekly assignment was posted with a deadline. Included with these assignments were some required reading with the focus on writing styles and how an article/essay comes together.

As we worked through each class, in quick succession came the framing of our essay topic, writing of the first draft, and assignment to an editor.

My work with editors has been limited. Nothing in-depth, even though I had found success in being published in the Upper Room, The Virginia Advocate, and the Richmond Times-Dispatch. Aside from the Upper Room, feedback and suggestions to rewrite or rework a submission have never happened. Well, that was about to change.

I posted my essay draft and submitted it to my editor.

I was nervous as I awaited her response. Initially, when the essay was returned to me I felt pretty good, but then I figured out how to apply the embedded technology links, and I was mortally wounded.

Sherwin Williams should create a new color name for their charts and call it Raging Red.

Nothing was spared. I felt like the carcass of a Thanksgiving turkey carved to the bone not even a sinew of meat remained anywhere.

It was if I had been flattened by a road paver, there was nothing left, not even a shred that could be peeled off the pavement.

At some point, I communicated to a couple of the editors that I felt like road kill, road kill that had been plucked clean by a turkey vulture.

A friend from the YMCA who is a professional writer told me that editors are “mean” and I guess humorless as well!

I could find nothing to redeem in this deconstructed scarlet autopsy. My confidence level was sub-zero.

So, I started over. I wrote from my heart, not that I hadn’t previously. Took an entirely different approach, and resubmitted a draft.

We were coming down to crunch time for the final posting. My editor returned the rewritten essay, and again raging red was the dominate, reoccurring theme.

I wanted to wave the white flag, but knew I couldn’t quit. Per recommendations, I reworked again this mutilated essay and posted it.

The affirmation for my writing that I was hoping for from working directly with an editor didn’t happen.

I told my senior pastor that I had been critically wounded by an editor. He quoted me Friedrich Nietzsche(Nee ch): “That which does not kill us makes us stronger.”

So, I thought to myself, ok, stop whining about being splattered in raging red by an editor. After all you are still breathing, and as Coach K would say you need to “move to the next play.”

And as I figure out that next play, I will ponder these words from Acts 2:37: “Now when they heard this, they were cut to the heart and said to Peter and the other apostles, “Brothers, what should we do?”

If I want to mend my “cut heart”, my response to “what should I do” needs to be grounded in this quote provided by one of the Faith and Leadership authors, from Augusten Burroughs:

“The secret to being a writer is that you have to write. It’s not enough to think about writing or to study literature or plan a future life as an author. You really have to lock yourself away, alone, and get to work.”

Let us pray:
Heavenly father, as we figure out how to regroup from one of life’s disappointments, help us to know that our hearts can be mended by letting you guide us back to work. In your name we pray, Amen.

As soon as we launch this blog, I’m sure the nano second world of technology will have something better than a blog. I’m a technology turtle. Need proof? I still own a flip phone!

Over the last several years, I’ve developed a passion for tinkering with words. My realm of success in finding outlets for my work to be formally published has been itty-bitty. While I will continue to explore options for publishing, I thought it seems reasonable that I could share my musings on a more frequent basis, thus a blog.

I’ve written a lot of pieces that focus on family, friends, life, and how in all that mix I might be able to find a slight theological connection without becoming a hell-fire and damnation, fist pounding, red faced, huffing and puffing, _________. (“e” word completes this sentence, I struggle with the “e” word!).

With this blog, the writing will continue to focus on themes surrounding family, friends, and this seemingly endless story bank, we call life.

As soon as we launch this blog, I’m sure the nano second world of technology will have something better than a blog. I’m a technology turtle. Need proof? I still own a flip phone!

Over the last several years, I’ve developed a passion for tinkering with words. My realm of success in finding outlets for my work to be formally published has been itty-bitty. While I will continue to explore options for publishing, I thought it seems reasonable that I could share my musings on a more frequent basis, thus a blog.

I’ve written a lot of pieces that focus on family, friends, life, and how in all that mix I might be able to find a slight theological connection without becoming a hell-fire and damnation, fist pounding, red faced, huffing and puffing, _________. (“e” word completes this sentence, I struggle with the “e” word!).

With this blog, the writing will continue to focus on themes surrounding family, friends, and this seemingly endless story bank, we call life.