The 2008 Christmas shopping season has officially begun with the passing of the day retailers have traditionally donned “Black Friday”.
For the past several years, Bob & I have gotten up at 4 A.M. and made our pilgrimage out to Wal-Mart, Target and other stores to try and snag some bargains with the bazillion or so others out there who have the same idea.
This year we stood in front of a west Little Rock Wal-Mart in the cold, dark wee hours of the morning, waiting on someone to open the doors and let us in to shop. I would estimate there were about 500 others out there with us. And things tend to happen when that many people gather together for a single purpose.
What is it that happens? It’s hard to explain. It’s just an enigmatic, powerful collective emotional drive that can unify a group of people who previously had no contact with each other. I believe it’s what motivational speakers would call synergy – a made-up word if ever I heard one!
Nevertheless, this so-called synergy is what brings us to the mountaintop when we gather together in worship to sing an uplifting praise song. It’s why those of us in the service may feel like “family”even though we may never have actually met each other before. We stand as one. It’s quite a powerful experience. This is synergy at its best.
Unfortunately, synergy is also what drew together those who gathered at the mock trial of Jesus and called for the release of the criminal Barrabas and the crucifixion of Jesus. This was also a group drawn together for one purpose.
So it seems that synergy can be used for bad as well as good.
Here’s another example of the bad. Friday morning, on Long Island, New York, a Wal-Mart worker was trampled to death by a throng of rabid shoppers trying to get in the door when the store opened. In addition to this fatality, at least four others, including a woman who was eight months pregnant, were taken to area hospitals for treatment.
The news reported that many stepped over this young man’s broken and dying body to be the first to get to the flat screen TV’s, Blu Ray players, GPS navigation systems, and $2 movies Wal-Mart had featured in their Black Friday ad. When asked to leave the store or just back up so employees could get through and render aid, some of these shoppers were heard to say that they had been in line since the day before and we’re going in to shop. What a callous disregard for human life!
This young man who died wasn’t even employed by Wal-Mart. He actually worked for a temporary agency that had sent him out as an extra. He was just a young guy trying to earn a living. I doubt that when he got up Friday morning, he thought: “Today, I’m going to give my life for a sale on flat screen TV’s.” Furthermore, I’m sure he was someone’s son, someone’s friend -- perhaps even someone’s father – all people who are going to miss him terribly, and are shaking their heads in confusion today wondering why this truly senseless thing had to happen.
Wal-Mart may find itself in the middle of a lawsuit over the incident (not their first foray into that arena), and perhaps they are somewhat to blame, but Wal-Mart can’t be held responsible for collective bad human behavior. That calls for an account to a higher authority.
Meanwhile, on the same day, in another town (Palm Desert, California) and another store (this time a Toys ‘R Us) two men shot each other to death after the women accompanying them got into an argument, at least this is what happened according to witnesses. In a subsequent press statement, the toy retailer was quick to point out that the deaths were not related to shopping, but rather to a personal dispute. That’s cold comfort to those who will spend the holiday season marking the death of loved ones.
In regards to these incidents, a friend told me that she was ‘pretty sure this was not what Jesus had in mind for the celebration of His birthday.’ Amen, sister! How have we gone so far afield?
True -- these are financially dismal, even desperate times. Many are wondering if they will be able to afford to buy Christmas presents for their children and other loved ones. Desperation plays out in some ugly ways. Many businesses are folding under the weight of the economy; crime is on the rise, and so, apparently, “Merry Christmas” is turning into “Scary Christmas” for some folks.
The problem is (IMHO) that we as a society in general are trying to maintain a certain standard of living we have become accustomed to. We are doing this in the face of higher prices and in many cases, less money. Unlike our grandparents, many of whom knew what “hard times” were via the Great Depression, we don’t know how to tighten our belts. We have become so accustomed to getting what we want and passing it on to our children that we don’t know how to cut back. We see ‘hard times’ as forgoing a meal out at a restaurant or putting off getting that new car we wanted, instead of wondering where our next meal is coming from.
On this same note, here’s another example of bad (if not strange) Christmas synergy:
Today, I read about a group of parents who have started a letter writing campaign to toy manufacturers asking them to “lighten up” on their enticing, yet diabolical, Christmas advertising. This is so that their children will not be drawn into wanting their toys so badly. It makes it easier on the parents who just can’t bare to tell “Little Johnny” or “Little Mary” that they can’t afford the Ultra Turboman action figure or the Barbie Dream House with the real working elevator. Yeah, right! Like that’s gonna happen! In my opinion, this stunt is taking “whackadoo” to a whole new level.
We have a line for dealing with this type of problem at our house. It goes something like this: “Kids, things are a little tight this year so you may not get everything you ask for. That doesn’t mean you won’t get some things you want, just not everything.” We’ve found that it’s worked every time we’ve tried it. Simply put, it’s the truth spoken in love, and love is not spelled: S-T-U-F-F.
This holiday craziness, my own struggle with self-centeredness and the quest for the ultimate holiday “feel good”, have caused me to pause and reflect on what I am really focused on this Christmas? What is this world focused on? The answer should be – not a ‘what’ – but a ‘Who’. (And I’m not talking about those strange, pointy-headed people in the Dr. Seuss holiday tale.) The ‘Who’ in question is Jesus Christ. I should be focused on Christ. The world should be focused on Christ. But the tragically, in it’s search for happiness, the world “knows Him not”. Unfortunately, I act like I “know Him not” as well sometimes.
This morning when I had my quiet time with God, I prayed that God would help me look past the commercialism of Christmas and see the true meaning of Christmas – the Christmas that seeks to give and not to get. I have prayed this prayer every year and in the past years I’ve had glimpses of “true Christmas” in the midst of the material madness. This year, I want to be captivated and filled with it to the point of overflowing and oozing onto everyone around me. In this, I believe Jesus would be pleased.
So with this in mind -- will I go out on “Black Friday” next year? Probably. But while waiting for the store to open, instead of getting sucked into the collective frenzy of shopping synergy, I might just contemplate holding the door open for another weary early morning shopper. Or when I see the fabulous deals on flat panel TV’s and Blu Ray players, I might just walk on by whistling “O, Come, O Come, Emmanuel.”
Merry Christ-mas!
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
This is something I wrote several years ago that's never been published, so I guess you could call this its first publication.
Read at your own risk.
*************************************************************************************
By Martha Hays
From a distance I could see the checkerboard water tower, a familiar pillar of my childhood beckoning me home. I drove down the Interstate in my rental car, anticipating the sights. The park where I had played ball. My high school.
I was coming back to Lake City on a mission. One that brought me both great sadness and a sense of closure with my past. I hadn’t been back in five years.
I turned off the Interstate at the Lake City exit and stopped at the Gas N’ Go to get a Pepsi. Getting out of the car, I stretched my legs and went in. Bob Taylor, the owner, was working behind the counter. His son Kevin and I had graduated together and played on the Junior High and High School basketball teams. We really didn’t know each other that well, and we really never got along. We ran in different crowds.
I wasn’t sure Bob would remember me or not because it had been so long since I had been back to see my mother. I saw his eyes brighten when he saw my face.
“Well, hello there, stranger! It’s been quite awhile.” Bob said. “How is life in the big city?”
“Oh, fine, always good to be home, though.” I obliged.
“Good to see you,” I added as I paid for my Pepsi. I shook Bob’s hand, and turned to go out the door.
“Roger, I know this is kind of a hard time for you, especially today, being back and all,” Bob said to me as I opened the door. “But it really is good to see you. You know, I always enjoy seeing the kids when they come back to town. And a lot of them do come back.” Then he added, “You ought to see Kevin and his wife and kids. You won’t believe how he’s changed.”
Change, I thought to myself. Yes, we have all changed. We had moved on, taken hold of our dreams, our goals, our callings. Time had marched on, as they say, and it could not be brought back to it’s beginning. As I got in my car drove away toward my destination, I wished my wife could have been here with me. I needed someone to cling to.
Sitting behind the wheel, looking at the skyline of the small town, I allowed myself to think of a time in my youth when my world hadn’t been as ordered as it was now.
**********
From an adult perspective, going to high school is like living on another planet. It has it’s own set of cultural mores. However, it does resemble the adult world in many ways. For some it is a stage upon which to perform, for others it is a battleground where the fight is for survival. No matter which category you fit into, it is a struggle to find your place.
One of the things I learned from experience in high school is that there are two ways to make yourself feel big: To raise yourself up, or to push someone else down. And from a worldly standpoint, there are some people that seem to be here for other people to push.
That was Charlie Weems.
Charlie was only 5'5", thin and pale. He was what most of us would have called a ‘nerd’ back then. He wore wire rim glasses and kept a calculator in the front pocket of his shirt.
There was something in the way he carried himself that told you he understood his position in the social structure at Lake City High School. It didn’t seem to bother him much.
Charlie was a mid-semester transfer in my junior year. He was also in the 11th grade. Coming to Lake City High, he had two strikes against him: being the new kid and looking awkward. Charlie was in my trigonometry class. He was very quiet and never volunteered to answer questions or do problems on the board. But when the teacher called him to the board, he always seemed to know what to do.
The first day I ever saw Charlie he was walking across campus with a stack of books under his arm. It was a Friday and I couldn’t imagine anyone doing that much homework over the weekend. I had a big weekend planned. I was taking my girlfriend to a party at Rick Kessler’s house. Looking at Charlie, I figured he probably didn’t get invited to many parties, and I sort of felt sorry for him.
Then Joe Brock and Kevin Taylor caught sight of him and began hassling him.
“Hey four-eyes, need some help?” I heard Joe yell in his direction.
Charlie ignored them, and continued to walk toward the parking lot.
“Hey, weirdo, we’re talking to you,” Kevin continued. “Don’t ignore us.”
They overtook Charlie and knocked him to the ground. Books went flying everywhere. Joe grabbed Charlie’s glasses from his face and put them on.
“Hey look at me, I’m ‘supergeek’!” Joe said. “Don’t I look cool?!?”
I had seen enough, and decided to fly into my wood-be hero mode.
“Ok, guys, that’s enough,” I said. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”
“Oh yeah, Maxwell. That’s right. Come to the nerd’s defense. You always did identify with the underdog.”
They began laughing and took off. Joe threw the glasses in the grass behind him as he left.
I helped Charlie up and we began to pick up his books.
“I’m OK. You don’t have to help me,” he said rather coolly at first. “But thanks,” he added sounding more appreciative.
“Hey, those guys are jerks,” I said, hoping to make him feel better.
“Yeah, I guess so,” he said. “Thanks.”
As he was walking away, I stopped him. “You’re Charlie, aren’t you?” I asked.
“Yeah, Charlie Weems.” He said as he put on his glasses.
“We have trig together. I sit about three seats behind you.”
“Yeah. I know,” he said. “I’ve seen you. You play basketball, don’t you.”
“Yep. I play forward, but mostly sit the bench,” I said. “Unfortunately, those two jerks you just encountered are the sports stars at this school. They get more playing time than I do.”
“At least you play,” he said. “I would really love to play sports.”
“Oh yeah!?” I said, surprised. “Why don’t you try out?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he answered. “I guess I’m afraid if I tried out and made it, I would have to give up my ‘nerd’ stereotype.” He laughed to himself. “Besides I would rather play baseball.”
I chuckled at the comment and I thought that I could get to like him. For a ‘nerd’, he was OK.
“Where did you come here from?” I asked.
“Oh, I transferred in from a private school in Brighton. My mom quit her job to stay at home with my little sister and my folks couldn’t afford the tuition anymore. So, here I am.”
“Man, I bet this place is a zoo compared to private school,” I said.
“You’d be surprised,” he said. “Kids there can be pretty ‘jerky’ too, sometimes. Besides, I like it here, believe it or not.” Charlie smiled.
I punched him in the shoulder to be friendly, and asked if he’d like a ride home in my Mustang. I had saved my yard-mowing money for three years so I could have the perfect car by the time I was 16: a cherry red ‘67 Mustang with white bucket seats. I had spent the previous summer putting the finishing touches on it so I could drive it this year. I really enjoyed showing it off, and giving my friends rides in it. It made me feel like a big shot.
I found out Charlie lived only a few blocks from me, and I offered to take him home from school whenever he wanted to ride instead of walk, just to be nice.
From then on, he often asked for rides.
That school year, we grew to be good friends. We found we had a lot in common. Charlie loved baseball, and knew a lot about the game and the players. He also had an excellent baseball card collection. I, too, loved the game, even more than basketball. And I loved going over to his house to look at the collection.. His favorite player was Carl Yazstremski. He had his rookie card encased in a plastic holder on his dresser. He said his dad had played in the minors with Yazstremski for a brief time back in the 1950's and was proud of it. His father, who had been a pretty good catcher at one time, had to give up baseball because his knees gave out.
Charlie’s folks were nice people. They belonged to the Baptist church in town. His mother taught Sunday school to the preschoolers and his dad was always working around town helping the old folks -- painting, fixing their roofs or doing odd jobs. He was a tool and dye maker by trade at a factory in Pratt twenty miles away.
They lived in a small house that really seemed too crowded for the four of them. Charlie’s bedroom was so small, it looked like a junk room with all his stuff in it. His baby sister’s room was even smaller than his.
Charlie had thought he was going to be an only child his whole life, until his mom announced she was pregnant with Cassie on his 15th birthday. I asked him if he was mad that the announcement had overshadowed his birthday, and he said, “No.” He said his mom and dad had prayed for another child nearly every day for several years. Cassie was their miracle baby, he said. It wasn’t until sometime later that I understood what he meant by that.
I really liked the Weems’. I loved being at their house. They made me feel like I belonged there. This was something I had been missing at my own house.
My mom and dad were good people, but very unemotional. Mom hated company and often fussed about the mess they’d leave behind if they ever came over. Dad just never spoke. Being at home was often like being at a museum, quiet and way too serious. So I seldom had my friends over.
It hadn’t always been this way. I could remember a time as a kid when we seemed to really enjoy being together, enjoy being a family. We went on camping trips and took family photos. We shared our feelings and laughed with each other. Mom and Dad seemed full of life back then. That was when my older brother J.D. (short for Jonathan Daniel) was alive. J. D. was a real comedian. He loved to joke around with me when I was a kid, but I could never remember him being mean to me. He was a great big brother.
Then in 1971, when J.D. was 19 and I was 7, he enlisted in the Army and was sent to fight on the front lines in Vietnam. He was killed in action three months later. I remember standing at his grave side with all the military around at the National Cemetery in Springfield, thinking, “How could that be my brother in that box? This funeral can’t be for him.” I kept expecting him to jump out from the bushes and yell, “Surprise” or “April Fool” or something. Then when they folded the American flag and handed it to my mom, I watched what was left of the life drain from her face. I knew. That was the death of our happy family.
Dad said he stopped believing in God that day. Mom seemed to agree. That was the end of any discussion of religion at our house.
Being at Charlie’s filled a deep need I had inside -- the need to feel loved and accepted by a family.
They prayed at meal times; quoted Bible verses, and talked about people in the Bible like they were people they might have known if they had lived back then. I thought it was a little odd, but in a weird sort of way, I really liked it. It was nice thinking there might be a God who loved people and cared about what happened to them.
Charlie and I often met at his house and talked about baseball and girls and other stuff. He sometimes talked about God and his relationship with Him, something I really didn’t understand. Into the next year, our friendship continued to grow. We were happy to find out at the beginning of our senior year that we once again had a class together. This time it was English.
By then he had become my best buddy. I could see there was something different about him. Something my other friends didn’t have. He was always an encourager. I found that even though my life ran relatively smooth despite our family problems, I still needed encouragement, like what I might have gotten from
J. D. if he had been there.
They say everyone has a crisis of faith at some point in their life. Some would say I had more than my share. I believe I had the biggest one that year.
If it was God trying to get my attention, he really got me around the neck in a choke hold.
It was unseasonably warm for November, and the sun was shining bright. I had gotten out of class early that day for teacher meetings -- a Tuesday -- and decided to go home and clean out the garage to look for my baseball glove. Baseball tryouts for walk-ons were the next week and I had talked Charlie into trying out for the team. We were going to hit a few in the city park before dark.
When I got home, I just knew something wasn’t right. My dad’s truck was in the driveway, and my mom’s car was gone. This was unusual since my mom was off work at the phone company on Tuesday and my dad usually worked.
Maybe he’s sick, I thought, and mom has gone to the store to get him something. But seeing Dad’s truck this strange feeling took hold of me. I could feel a knot in my stomach. Something warning me, preparing me for the worst.
When I got inside I could smell it. The sickening sweet odor coming from the kitchen. Though a somewhat familiar smell, I couldn’t place it right away. I walked through the living room and saw tacked to the message board by the phone, a note from my mom: “If you come home, I went shopping in Pratt, be back by four.“
Peeking into the kitchen I saw a pair of legs sprawled out in the floor. The oven door was open, and the rest of what was my dad seemed to be stuffed inside. Thinking back, the sight might have looked comical if I had seen it on a TV show. But in reality it was the most awful thing I had ever seen.
Being there was kind of like watching a movie. It didn’t seem to be real, and I don’t really remember what I did next. Inside, I could feel myself screaming for help, but couldn’t hear the sound.
I remember thinking, “Oh, Jesus, no!” Maybe I said it. I found out later that I had pulled my dad from the oven and laid him out on the kitchen floor. I do remember looking at him. His face, was blue, nearly purple. His eyes were closed in an almost peaceful manner. I couldn’t tell if he was breathing. The paramedics arrived at what seemed like an hour later. I guess I must have called them. Dad was pronounced dead at the hospital in Pratt when they arrived there.
For days, I stayed in my room. I was depressed and felt numbness throughout my whole body. I gave up things I once thought had meaning in my life. I quit playing sports. Forgot about baseball tryouts. Quit seeing my girlfriend. My grades at school dropped. School counselors tried to talk to me. Friends patted me on the shoulder. Everyone seemed to be treating me with kid gloves. I felt like the poster child for “when bad things happen to good people.”
But inside, I ached with guilt for being alive. For enjoying life when my parents had hated it so much. Maybe they wished I had been the one that died instead of J.D. Maybe if J.D. had lived instead of me, Dad wouldn’t have given up on life.
Charlie and his folks came over a couple of times in the days that followed to offer their condolences and bring food. I remember one day a week or so later sitting in my room with Charlie. We would talk about unimportant things, and then go for minutes without either of us saying a word. During these moments of silence, I would look over at him and see him mouthing words with his eyes closed. He was praying.
Charlie went on to try out for the baseball team, and make it. Though I was carrying around the weight of the world, I watched from the sidelines and was proud of him. He was second string catcher. Just like his dad, I thought. I bet his dad was proud of him too.
By March of our senior year, Charlie had really transformed. He looked great, and he had really come out of his shell. But even though Charlie was making his mark around Lake City High School, it didn’t stop all the harassment from the other students, especially the jocks. Some of them hated the fact that he was becoming popular and had made the baseball team, and they never let him forget where he came from. He seemed to take it in stride though. Charlie had also filled out quite a bit over the school year. He had finally gotten contact lenses and was wearing his hair a little different. He had even begun to date. He had gone out with Lee Ann Demerest and talked about her often. Although he insisted it was nothing serious. “We’re just friends,” he told me.
One day in April, four months after we buried my dad, Charlie came over. I was outback shooting baskets. He sat down on our glider and he asked me to stop and come over and sit down with him. He wanted to talk to me.
“Rog, you mind if I ask you something? Something personal?” He was hesitant and looked a little nervous.
“Naw. Ask away,” I said.
“Do you ever think about heaven?”
Suddenly, I felt defensive, feeling like this was going to be a talk about religion and where I was going when I die and all, and I got up and tried to walk away.”
“Look, Charlie, I’m not in the mood, OK?” Now, I was irritated.
Charlie got up and came after me. He grabbed my arm gently. “Roger. We’re friends, right?”
“Yeah,” I said, turning toward him.
“And friends care about each other?”
I nodded.
“I care about you.” Charlie continued. “Maybe that’s not a very macho thing to say, but I care about you. I care about what happens to you.”
“Ok,” I said, feeling a little uncomfortable.
“I know you are hurting. Pardon me for saying this, but you seem to have given up on a lot of things.” He hesitated for a moment. His eyes diverted toward the ground in shyness, then he continued. “I just want you to know that God loves you and has a plan for your life.” Then he looked me in the eyes to see my reaction.
It was then I could control myself no longer. I became belligerent. Irate.
“OH YEAH!!! HE LOVES ME!??!! THAT”S A CROCK, CHARLIE!!!” I began to fight back tears. “IF HE LOVES ME SO MUCH, HOW COME HE DESTROYED MY FAMILY!!!!???!!”
Now, I felt steam rising from my face, and I looked at Charlie, challenging him and his notion about God. He looked ruffled, but unchanged..
For the longest time, he didn’t respond, looking like he was gathering his thoughts. When he did finally speak, he spoke with a kindness that was somewhat irritating. “I don’t know why you and your family have gone through so much, but I do know that God would never destroy your family. God doesn’t destroy or kill. The Bible says that Satan comes to steal, kill and destroy. God comes to give life. He wants to give you life, eternal life in Jesus Christ His Son.”
I looked Charlie, dead in the eye, and stated for the record: “HE CAN KEEP HIS ETERNAL LIFE.” Then I asked Charlie to leave and he did.
I didn’t talk to him for a couple of weeks. I ducked when I saw him in the halls, in class, and in the cafeteria. I think he knew I was still angry with him, but he never seemed to be bothered by it. We might have gone on like that forever, if it hadn’t been for the weight room incident in May.
Charlie had begun to weight train, to improve his upper arm strength, and his hitting. He had since graduated to first string on the team, and we were in contention for the AA state championship. Charlie’s consistency behind the plate was a large part of the reason. “His catching made our pitching look 10 times better,” the coach had been quoted in the school newspaper. “And he has a rocket throwing arm.”
It was a Friday in the weight room, Charlie was working out on the bench and Kevin and Joe came in. Charlie had been lifting barbells when Kevin appeared over him. He grabbed the weighted bar and pushed it down on Charlie’s neck. His arms were like tree trunks and Charlie, whose body had just begun to take shape, still looked like the 98-pound weakling in the Charles Atlas ad compared to Kevin. He was no match for Kevin and Joe together. As Kevin pressed down on him from above, Joe grabbed his ankles and held him down there.
It was around this time, that I was walking by the gym when I saw a small crowd of guys hovering by the weight room door cheering on somebody. Out of curiosity, I walked over to where they were and saw what was going on through window.
“Hey, geek. What you doin’? Trying to pump up that chicken-little body, of yours?” I could hear Kevin taunting. He beared down, and Charlie struggled. His face was red, and he looked weak.
I became frightened for him, and I sprung into action. I pushed my way through the crowd threw open the door and grabbed Kevin and threw him off Charlie. He went sailing into a treadmill, and then Joe was on top of me. I punched Joe in the face. And he fell down. I fell on top of him and kept pounding and pounding. I began taking out the frustrations of the past few months on his face. Kevin got up and came toward us. I could see him out of the corner of my eye. Charlie, who had since gotten up from the bench, grabbed Kevin from behind and held him back. Finally a couple of the other kids grabbed me and pulled me off Joe. The coach came in and everybody scattered except me, Joe, Kevin and Charlie.
When the dust had cleared, I was sitting in the principal’s office taking my punishment with Kevin and Joe.
The principal had only suspended me for two days, ‘in light of all the suffering and tragedy my family had been through.’. He threw the book at Kevin and Joe. A week’s suspension and he barred them from participating in the state baseball tournament. Ouch!
Charlie smiled, shook my hand thanked me for saving him. We were friends again, though the relationship still seemed strained. We no longer spent as much time at each other’s houses.
My life seemed to be drifting. Charlie was right. I had given up on living. Now it seemed like I didn’t do anything at home but lock myself in my room and listen to music.
My mom had gotten involved with a support group for families who had lost members to suicide. Surprisingly enough it was at the Bible Doctrine Church in town. While there, she met this woman named Dotty, who was trying to counsel her back into the land of the living. Mom actually seemed to be improving, though she was not back to being the mom I remembered as a child. Several times she had even told me she was worried about me.
Then one Saturday afternoon, locked in my room, I did something I had never done before, something I said I would never do. I unscrewed the cap from a fifth of Jack Daniels that had belonged to my dad. I had found it cleaning the garage not long after my dad died. I should have thrown it away, but for some reason, I kept it and hid it my closet
I was going to get stinking drunk, and I didn’t care. I had always hated drinking. I thought it made people look stupid, and I had once made an arrogant vow never to drink.
Forgetting this vow now, I turned up the bottle and took what I thought would be a long drink. I choked and spit part of it back out into the bottle. The taste burned the back of my throat. It was bitter like quinine. But what I had managed to take in, felt warm going down like someone was hugging me. I took another drink and felt a little ‘buzz’ in my head.
I was getting drunk, I thought. “Good. I don’t care,”.I said.
I was mad at life. Mad at God, most of all. I shook my fist at Him, and raged. “Why did you put me here to suffer, God? Why did you take my Dad, and J.D? Why did you let them die?”
Then I remember something Charlie had told me once about God. How he had allowed His own Son to die on the cross because He loved us so much. None of it made any sense to me.
I screamed up in God’s direction. I wasn’t even sure if He was listening.
I felt like I was at a crossroads and couldn’t decide if I wanted to live or not.
Then I did something rather strange. I screwed the top back on the whiskey, and just lay there for what seemed like an eternity. I could feel myself sobering up. My head pounded.
There was an empty space in my heart, like a jigsaw puzzle with a missing piece. Nothing seemed to fit. My heart was crying out to be filled. Could that be God trying to reach out to me? I wondered.
Instinctively, I knew what to do. I called Charlie and asked him to meet me. We agreed to meet in the park in fifteen minutes. I climbed out the window so I wouldn’t have to confront my mom with the smell of booze on my breath, and walked toward the park only three blocks away. On the way, I stopped at the gas station on the next block and bought a box of Clorets from the vending machine to mask the stench of the booze.
Charlie was sitting on the bench just outside the fence at the practice field, and I could see his Bible in his hand. I was relieved to see him. My buddy. My port in the storm.
He gave me a quick masculine hug, and we sat down on the bench. Standing so close, I could tell by the look on his face that the Clorets hadn’t done their job, but he never said anything about it.
“I need to know about Jesus,” I said, cutting to the chase. “I need to know the truth about Him.”
“Ok,” Charlie said. “I can sure try to answer some of your questions? What do you want to know?”
“You once said He loved me and had a plan for my life,” I continued.
Charlie asked if it was OK if he opened his Bible.
I said it was.
“Roger, I love you like a brother,” He told me. “I hope you know that. Sometimes I wish we were brothers, I don’t know, maybe to make up for the brother you lost.”
This made me feel good to know he cared that much.
Then Charlie began to read from the book of Jeremiah. “‘God said, ‘For I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosper and not harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future.’” He stopped reading and closed the Bible with his finger marking the spot.
“You see, Roger, God doesn’t want to see you get hurt. He loves you and wants the best for you. Jesus is the best He has to give. That is our hope.”
Hope. That sounded great. But how could I know it was real? I asked
“Well, you have to have faith, Roger. Look I can’t stand here and prove to you that God exists, at least not in a way that you can see Him. That’s not what faith is. But you can see what he’s made just by looking around you.”
“I know He exists, because I’ve experienced Him working in my life and seen Him working in the lives of my family members. I know He is faithful to answer our prayers.” He paused and his facial expression changed a little. He seemed to get serious.
“Look, remember I told you that my mom quit work to stay home with my sister, and I had to quit going to private school?”
I nodded.
“Well, there’s more to that story.” I could see his eyes welling up with tears. I felt my heart go out to him, without even knowing what he was going to say.
“Mom had already decided to quit work when she got pregnant. Near the end of the pregnancy, she got sick. She ran fever almost constantly and finally went to the doctor. They hospitalized my mom and decided to go ahead and deliver the baby.”
“Cassie was born with a condition called beta strep. It’s an infection Mom got and passed on to the baby when she was carrying her. I don’t know all the medical reasons for it.”
“I just remember the day she was born, My dad came out of the delivery room with this look on his face, and I just knew something was wrong. I could tell from his eyes that he had been crying and he told us to pray for both Mom and the baby. My grandparents and I were there. So were some people from my church. The doctor had told Dad that Mom was in serious condition, and they had sent her immediately to ICU isolation after Cassie was born. Cassie had been sent to the ICU for newborns. She was critical.
“Dad paused for a long while. I thought he was going to come unglued. He quivered, and finally he said. ‘Cassie may not make it.’
“I got scared, Roger, I was scared and really mad at God. How could God give my mom and dad the baby they had prayed so long for, and then just take her. What kind of a God was he?
“Still I prayed because it was all I could do, and my dad had asked me to do it. I went home and prayed all night. That evening, folks from our church came over and we held a prayer vigil for Mom and Cassie.
“Then the next morning, I woke up and I heard God speaking to me.”
I must’ve looked confused at this point in his story, because Charlie explained the part about God “speaking” to him.
“No, I didn’t hear God out loud. I just knew in my heart that He was trying to tell me something. I remembered this scripture that I had learned in Bible school as a little kid.
“‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will direct your paths,’ Proverbs 3: 5-6. I hadn’t thought about it in years, and there in my time of need, God had brought it back to me.”
“I just kept thinking about that scripture and praying for Mom and Cassie. Then, late that afternoon, My dad called from the hospital. My grandparents and I were afraid it was bad news, but my dad told my grandmother to put me on the phone.
“God heard all the prayers, Charlie, and the antibiotics they gave them are working. Mom and Cassie are going to be OK.”
“After that, I never questioned the existence of God or His goodness again. Over the years, I’ve found that life doesn’t have to be going good, for God to be good. He just is.”
And now, every day I think about how great heaven must be. That’s why I don’t worry about junk that happens down here like bullies messing with me. I just try to focus on heaven, because for a Christian, that’s home, our real home, and it’s going to be so great when we get there and see Jesus.”
I was touched by the story, and moved by God’s power to heal his mom and sister. I had seen God working in Charlie’s life, and I knew that I wanted what he had. The peace that passes understanding. I knew I had to have it to get through. I had heard Charlie talk about being saved, eternal life in Christ. I longed for it. A place in God’s world. A reason for living.
From our previous talks, I knew I was a sinner, and needed to be saved from my sins. I knew God could save me from them, if I would just ask him to, and then turn my life over to Him.
We knelt there in front of the bench that evening, right there near the place we had played catch so many times. In that city park, with my friend, I prayed and asked Jesus to come into my heart and save me.
The memory of that afternoon lingered. Even all these years later. They say a person never forgets the details of his salvation experience. I had never forgotten mine.
I began going to church with Charlie and his family. The evening I was baptized, I invited my mom, but she didn’t show up. I was disappointed, but continued praying for her. I grew in my faith and studied my Bible, a gift from Charlie and his family on the day of my baptism.
I was deeply grateful to Charlie Weems and his family. And eternally grateful to the God that they served. The God that had come to be my own -- the one I, too, now served..
After high school, I had gone on to a Christian college out of state on a scholarship. Charlie had gotten accepted at a state university on a baseball scholarship. In my freshman year, I surrendered to youth ministry. I got a letter in the middle of my sophomore year from my mother. I remember I was shocked that she had written to me. She had written to tell me that she had accepted Christ at one of her support group meetings. I had been praying for her since my conversion, so I rejoiced in her salvation. That day I called to tell her so, and to tell her that I loved her and would be praying for her.
After college, I was called to a small church in Columbus about five hundred miles from Lake City to be their youth minister. I embraced the opportunity to serve God in this calling, and put my whole heart into it. From the first days of my ministry, some of the older ladies in the church kept after me, asking me when I was going to get married. One lady in the church, Mrs. Hawley, would introduce me to young eligible Christian girls in the community. She seemed quite anxious to get me settled down. One Sunday afternoon at a church dinner on the grounds, I met my future wife, Angel. We were married eight months later by the pastor, and our first child, a son we named Jonathan Charles, was born two years later. Our daughter, Rachel was born 13 months after that.
Charlie married Lee Ann at the beginning of his senior year in college and they had a child about 10 months after he graduated. He signed to play AA ball with the Tulsa Drillers, and also served as the team’s chaplain. I got letters from him and we exchanged phone calls every other month or so for several years. I kept meaning to take off and go to one of his games and meet his kids. It just never seemed to work out. Angel and I got wrapped up in work, the church and our lives.
I kept up with his baseball career through mutual friends and his family, and not long ago found out that he and Lee Ann had moved back to Lake City. They had also had another child, a daughter. I got his home number from directory assistance and called his house. His mother answered the phone. It was great to hear her voice after all these years.
“They are at the hospital, Roger,” she said, sounding tired.
I thought perhaps someone in the family was sick. Maybe Charlie’s knees had finally given out and he was having surgery. Nothing could have prepared me for what this dear lady told me next.
“He doesn’t have much time left, Roger. It’s cancer.” She was weeping as she talked. “Lee Ann has been by his side day and night, and the kids are with us at his house.”
I could feel my heart in my throat. Tears began to stream down my face. “I didn’t know,” I said, in a raspy whisper..
“It’s OK, Roger. Charlie didn’t want you to know. He knew you would worry, and he wanted you to remember him like he was.”
“His weight has dropped down to below 100 pounds, and he is on a respirator. He’s barely conscious some days.” She said, overtaken in her grief.
“I have to come,” I said. “There are things I need to say to him.”. How could I have gotten so wrapped up in my life, that I had forgotten my friend? How could I have let that relationship slip away from me. Now I would never get the chance to tell him what our friendship had meant to me.
“Roger,” his mom said. “He loves you. You have always been his best friend, and his father and I have always been grateful to you for befriending him. We prayed for a good friend for him when he transferred to Lake City High School. You were the answer to our prayers.”
“Thank you for telling me that,” I said, choking back tears. “I am going to try to come this week.” I added.
I did make plans to go to Lake City, but that same week Angel, six months into her third pregnancy, was put to bed by her doctor. I felt I needed to stay by her side and canceled the trip. His mother called two days later. Charlie had gone to be with the Lord.
********
After leaving the Gas N’ Go, I drove through town, continuing to take in the sights. It was good to be home again. I wanted to see my mom, who had told me she would meet me at the service. Angel’s mom had come to stay with her and the kids. She told me she would call me if there was an emergency. She knew this was a place I had to be today.
I was asked to deliver the eulogy at the grave side, and I thought of all the things I wanted to say about my friend. I drove a few blocks out of my way and passed the ball park where I met Jesus with him for the first time. Seeing our bench brought back the greatest memory of my life.
After the funeral, Lee Ann came over and hugged me and thanked me for coming, for speaking words of love about my friend. She had aged so much, but was still very beautiful. I saw their girls, their youngest now 6, standing next to her. How she looked like Cassie, I thought. Roger must’ve been proud. Lee Ann handed me an envelope with my name on it and kissed me on the cheek. “You were his best friend, Roger. He never stopped talking about you.”
Those words hung in the air after we had all left the cemetery. I thought of the cemetery workers shoveling dirt over the casket that contained the vacated body of my friend. Charlie was not there. He had gone to see Jesus.
On my way to my mom’s house, I passed by the park again and stopped. I got out of my car and walked over to the bench. It was a beautiful day and I could hear the birds chirping. I felt a light breeze across my face and I looked up into the sun. It felt good, but I could contain myself no more. Standing next to the “bench” I dropped to my knees at the spot where I had accepted Christ 17 years before, and I wept. I wept hard, grieving for my friend. Grieving for lost time with him that I could never get back. Then I stood to my feet and sat down the bench and tore open the envelope.
Inside was a short note written in a shaky hand, no doubt weakened from cancer.
It contained only two paragraphs.
The first was about things we had done as teenagers. Charlie thanked me for my friendship, for our times together and for protecting him from the bullies. He told me he loved me, and not to feel bad that we had lost touch. “I praised God every day for your changed life,” he wrote.
I chuckled after I read the second paragraph of that note. I could see his smiling face as he wrote it.
It consisted of only two short sentences. “By the way, “ it said, “‘by the time you get this, I will be settled into my new ‘home’. Sure is wonderful here. I’ll be waiting for you, brother.”
Read at your own risk.
*************************************************************************************
Heading Home
By Martha Hays
From a distance I could see the checkerboard water tower, a familiar pillar of my childhood beckoning me home. I drove down the Interstate in my rental car, anticipating the sights. The park where I had played ball. My high school.
I was coming back to Lake City on a mission. One that brought me both great sadness and a sense of closure with my past. I hadn’t been back in five years.
I turned off the Interstate at the Lake City exit and stopped at the Gas N’ Go to get a Pepsi. Getting out of the car, I stretched my legs and went in. Bob Taylor, the owner, was working behind the counter. His son Kevin and I had graduated together and played on the Junior High and High School basketball teams. We really didn’t know each other that well, and we really never got along. We ran in different crowds.
I wasn’t sure Bob would remember me or not because it had been so long since I had been back to see my mother. I saw his eyes brighten when he saw my face.
“Well, hello there, stranger! It’s been quite awhile.” Bob said. “How is life in the big city?”
“Oh, fine, always good to be home, though.” I obliged.
“Good to see you,” I added as I paid for my Pepsi. I shook Bob’s hand, and turned to go out the door.
“Roger, I know this is kind of a hard time for you, especially today, being back and all,” Bob said to me as I opened the door. “But it really is good to see you. You know, I always enjoy seeing the kids when they come back to town. And a lot of them do come back.” Then he added, “You ought to see Kevin and his wife and kids. You won’t believe how he’s changed.”
Change, I thought to myself. Yes, we have all changed. We had moved on, taken hold of our dreams, our goals, our callings. Time had marched on, as they say, and it could not be brought back to it’s beginning. As I got in my car drove away toward my destination, I wished my wife could have been here with me. I needed someone to cling to.
Sitting behind the wheel, looking at the skyline of the small town, I allowed myself to think of a time in my youth when my world hadn’t been as ordered as it was now.
**********
From an adult perspective, going to high school is like living on another planet. It has it’s own set of cultural mores. However, it does resemble the adult world in many ways. For some it is a stage upon which to perform, for others it is a battleground where the fight is for survival. No matter which category you fit into, it is a struggle to find your place.
One of the things I learned from experience in high school is that there are two ways to make yourself feel big: To raise yourself up, or to push someone else down. And from a worldly standpoint, there are some people that seem to be here for other people to push.
That was Charlie Weems.
Charlie was only 5'5", thin and pale. He was what most of us would have called a ‘nerd’ back then. He wore wire rim glasses and kept a calculator in the front pocket of his shirt.
There was something in the way he carried himself that told you he understood his position in the social structure at Lake City High School. It didn’t seem to bother him much.
Charlie was a mid-semester transfer in my junior year. He was also in the 11th grade. Coming to Lake City High, he had two strikes against him: being the new kid and looking awkward. Charlie was in my trigonometry class. He was very quiet and never volunteered to answer questions or do problems on the board. But when the teacher called him to the board, he always seemed to know what to do.
The first day I ever saw Charlie he was walking across campus with a stack of books under his arm. It was a Friday and I couldn’t imagine anyone doing that much homework over the weekend. I had a big weekend planned. I was taking my girlfriend to a party at Rick Kessler’s house. Looking at Charlie, I figured he probably didn’t get invited to many parties, and I sort of felt sorry for him.
Then Joe Brock and Kevin Taylor caught sight of him and began hassling him.
“Hey four-eyes, need some help?” I heard Joe yell in his direction.
Charlie ignored them, and continued to walk toward the parking lot.
“Hey, weirdo, we’re talking to you,” Kevin continued. “Don’t ignore us.”
They overtook Charlie and knocked him to the ground. Books went flying everywhere. Joe grabbed Charlie’s glasses from his face and put them on.
“Hey look at me, I’m ‘supergeek’!” Joe said. “Don’t I look cool?!?”
I had seen enough, and decided to fly into my wood-be hero mode.
“Ok, guys, that’s enough,” I said. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”
“Oh yeah, Maxwell. That’s right. Come to the nerd’s defense. You always did identify with the underdog.”
They began laughing and took off. Joe threw the glasses in the grass behind him as he left.
I helped Charlie up and we began to pick up his books.
“I’m OK. You don’t have to help me,” he said rather coolly at first. “But thanks,” he added sounding more appreciative.
“Hey, those guys are jerks,” I said, hoping to make him feel better.
“Yeah, I guess so,” he said. “Thanks.”
As he was walking away, I stopped him. “You’re Charlie, aren’t you?” I asked.
“Yeah, Charlie Weems.” He said as he put on his glasses.
“We have trig together. I sit about three seats behind you.”
“Yeah. I know,” he said. “I’ve seen you. You play basketball, don’t you.”
“Yep. I play forward, but mostly sit the bench,” I said. “Unfortunately, those two jerks you just encountered are the sports stars at this school. They get more playing time than I do.”
“At least you play,” he said. “I would really love to play sports.”
“Oh yeah!?” I said, surprised. “Why don’t you try out?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he answered. “I guess I’m afraid if I tried out and made it, I would have to give up my ‘nerd’ stereotype.” He laughed to himself. “Besides I would rather play baseball.”
I chuckled at the comment and I thought that I could get to like him. For a ‘nerd’, he was OK.
“Where did you come here from?” I asked.
“Oh, I transferred in from a private school in Brighton. My mom quit her job to stay at home with my little sister and my folks couldn’t afford the tuition anymore. So, here I am.”
“Man, I bet this place is a zoo compared to private school,” I said.
“You’d be surprised,” he said. “Kids there can be pretty ‘jerky’ too, sometimes. Besides, I like it here, believe it or not.” Charlie smiled.
I punched him in the shoulder to be friendly, and asked if he’d like a ride home in my Mustang. I had saved my yard-mowing money for three years so I could have the perfect car by the time I was 16: a cherry red ‘67 Mustang with white bucket seats. I had spent the previous summer putting the finishing touches on it so I could drive it this year. I really enjoyed showing it off, and giving my friends rides in it. It made me feel like a big shot.
I found out Charlie lived only a few blocks from me, and I offered to take him home from school whenever he wanted to ride instead of walk, just to be nice.
From then on, he often asked for rides.
That school year, we grew to be good friends. We found we had a lot in common. Charlie loved baseball, and knew a lot about the game and the players. He also had an excellent baseball card collection. I, too, loved the game, even more than basketball. And I loved going over to his house to look at the collection.. His favorite player was Carl Yazstremski. He had his rookie card encased in a plastic holder on his dresser. He said his dad had played in the minors with Yazstremski for a brief time back in the 1950's and was proud of it. His father, who had been a pretty good catcher at one time, had to give up baseball because his knees gave out.
Charlie’s folks were nice people. They belonged to the Baptist church in town. His mother taught Sunday school to the preschoolers and his dad was always working around town helping the old folks -- painting, fixing their roofs or doing odd jobs. He was a tool and dye maker by trade at a factory in Pratt twenty miles away.
They lived in a small house that really seemed too crowded for the four of them. Charlie’s bedroom was so small, it looked like a junk room with all his stuff in it. His baby sister’s room was even smaller than his.
Charlie had thought he was going to be an only child his whole life, until his mom announced she was pregnant with Cassie on his 15th birthday. I asked him if he was mad that the announcement had overshadowed his birthday, and he said, “No.” He said his mom and dad had prayed for another child nearly every day for several years. Cassie was their miracle baby, he said. It wasn’t until sometime later that I understood what he meant by that.
I really liked the Weems’. I loved being at their house. They made me feel like I belonged there. This was something I had been missing at my own house.
My mom and dad were good people, but very unemotional. Mom hated company and often fussed about the mess they’d leave behind if they ever came over. Dad just never spoke. Being at home was often like being at a museum, quiet and way too serious. So I seldom had my friends over.
It hadn’t always been this way. I could remember a time as a kid when we seemed to really enjoy being together, enjoy being a family. We went on camping trips and took family photos. We shared our feelings and laughed with each other. Mom and Dad seemed full of life back then. That was when my older brother J.D. (short for Jonathan Daniel) was alive. J. D. was a real comedian. He loved to joke around with me when I was a kid, but I could never remember him being mean to me. He was a great big brother.
Then in 1971, when J.D. was 19 and I was 7, he enlisted in the Army and was sent to fight on the front lines in Vietnam. He was killed in action three months later. I remember standing at his grave side with all the military around at the National Cemetery in Springfield, thinking, “How could that be my brother in that box? This funeral can’t be for him.” I kept expecting him to jump out from the bushes and yell, “Surprise” or “April Fool” or something. Then when they folded the American flag and handed it to my mom, I watched what was left of the life drain from her face. I knew. That was the death of our happy family.
Dad said he stopped believing in God that day. Mom seemed to agree. That was the end of any discussion of religion at our house.
Being at Charlie’s filled a deep need I had inside -- the need to feel loved and accepted by a family.
They prayed at meal times; quoted Bible verses, and talked about people in the Bible like they were people they might have known if they had lived back then. I thought it was a little odd, but in a weird sort of way, I really liked it. It was nice thinking there might be a God who loved people and cared about what happened to them.
Charlie and I often met at his house and talked about baseball and girls and other stuff. He sometimes talked about God and his relationship with Him, something I really didn’t understand. Into the next year, our friendship continued to grow. We were happy to find out at the beginning of our senior year that we once again had a class together. This time it was English.
By then he had become my best buddy. I could see there was something different about him. Something my other friends didn’t have. He was always an encourager. I found that even though my life ran relatively smooth despite our family problems, I still needed encouragement, like what I might have gotten from
J. D. if he had been there.
They say everyone has a crisis of faith at some point in their life. Some would say I had more than my share. I believe I had the biggest one that year.
If it was God trying to get my attention, he really got me around the neck in a choke hold.
It was unseasonably warm for November, and the sun was shining bright. I had gotten out of class early that day for teacher meetings -- a Tuesday -- and decided to go home and clean out the garage to look for my baseball glove. Baseball tryouts for walk-ons were the next week and I had talked Charlie into trying out for the team. We were going to hit a few in the city park before dark.
When I got home, I just knew something wasn’t right. My dad’s truck was in the driveway, and my mom’s car was gone. This was unusual since my mom was off work at the phone company on Tuesday and my dad usually worked.
Maybe he’s sick, I thought, and mom has gone to the store to get him something. But seeing Dad’s truck this strange feeling took hold of me. I could feel a knot in my stomach. Something warning me, preparing me for the worst.
When I got inside I could smell it. The sickening sweet odor coming from the kitchen. Though a somewhat familiar smell, I couldn’t place it right away. I walked through the living room and saw tacked to the message board by the phone, a note from my mom: “If you come home, I went shopping in Pratt, be back by four.“
Peeking into the kitchen I saw a pair of legs sprawled out in the floor. The oven door was open, and the rest of what was my dad seemed to be stuffed inside. Thinking back, the sight might have looked comical if I had seen it on a TV show. But in reality it was the most awful thing I had ever seen.
Being there was kind of like watching a movie. It didn’t seem to be real, and I don’t really remember what I did next. Inside, I could feel myself screaming for help, but couldn’t hear the sound.
I remember thinking, “Oh, Jesus, no!” Maybe I said it. I found out later that I had pulled my dad from the oven and laid him out on the kitchen floor. I do remember looking at him. His face, was blue, nearly purple. His eyes were closed in an almost peaceful manner. I couldn’t tell if he was breathing. The paramedics arrived at what seemed like an hour later. I guess I must have called them. Dad was pronounced dead at the hospital in Pratt when they arrived there.
For days, I stayed in my room. I was depressed and felt numbness throughout my whole body. I gave up things I once thought had meaning in my life. I quit playing sports. Forgot about baseball tryouts. Quit seeing my girlfriend. My grades at school dropped. School counselors tried to talk to me. Friends patted me on the shoulder. Everyone seemed to be treating me with kid gloves. I felt like the poster child for “when bad things happen to good people.”
But inside, I ached with guilt for being alive. For enjoying life when my parents had hated it so much. Maybe they wished I had been the one that died instead of J.D. Maybe if J.D. had lived instead of me, Dad wouldn’t have given up on life.
Charlie and his folks came over a couple of times in the days that followed to offer their condolences and bring food. I remember one day a week or so later sitting in my room with Charlie. We would talk about unimportant things, and then go for minutes without either of us saying a word. During these moments of silence, I would look over at him and see him mouthing words with his eyes closed. He was praying.
Charlie went on to try out for the baseball team, and make it. Though I was carrying around the weight of the world, I watched from the sidelines and was proud of him. He was second string catcher. Just like his dad, I thought. I bet his dad was proud of him too.
By March of our senior year, Charlie had really transformed. He looked great, and he had really come out of his shell. But even though Charlie was making his mark around Lake City High School, it didn’t stop all the harassment from the other students, especially the jocks. Some of them hated the fact that he was becoming popular and had made the baseball team, and they never let him forget where he came from. He seemed to take it in stride though. Charlie had also filled out quite a bit over the school year. He had finally gotten contact lenses and was wearing his hair a little different. He had even begun to date. He had gone out with Lee Ann Demerest and talked about her often. Although he insisted it was nothing serious. “We’re just friends,” he told me.
One day in April, four months after we buried my dad, Charlie came over. I was outback shooting baskets. He sat down on our glider and he asked me to stop and come over and sit down with him. He wanted to talk to me.
“Rog, you mind if I ask you something? Something personal?” He was hesitant and looked a little nervous.
“Naw. Ask away,” I said.
“Do you ever think about heaven?”
Suddenly, I felt defensive, feeling like this was going to be a talk about religion and where I was going when I die and all, and I got up and tried to walk away.”
“Look, Charlie, I’m not in the mood, OK?” Now, I was irritated.
Charlie got up and came after me. He grabbed my arm gently. “Roger. We’re friends, right?”
“Yeah,” I said, turning toward him.
“And friends care about each other?”
I nodded.
“I care about you.” Charlie continued. “Maybe that’s not a very macho thing to say, but I care about you. I care about what happens to you.”
“Ok,” I said, feeling a little uncomfortable.
“I know you are hurting. Pardon me for saying this, but you seem to have given up on a lot of things.” He hesitated for a moment. His eyes diverted toward the ground in shyness, then he continued. “I just want you to know that God loves you and has a plan for your life.” Then he looked me in the eyes to see my reaction.
It was then I could control myself no longer. I became belligerent. Irate.
“OH YEAH!!! HE LOVES ME!??!! THAT”S A CROCK, CHARLIE!!!” I began to fight back tears. “IF HE LOVES ME SO MUCH, HOW COME HE DESTROYED MY FAMILY!!!!???!!”
Now, I felt steam rising from my face, and I looked at Charlie, challenging him and his notion about God. He looked ruffled, but unchanged..
For the longest time, he didn’t respond, looking like he was gathering his thoughts. When he did finally speak, he spoke with a kindness that was somewhat irritating. “I don’t know why you and your family have gone through so much, but I do know that God would never destroy your family. God doesn’t destroy or kill. The Bible says that Satan comes to steal, kill and destroy. God comes to give life. He wants to give you life, eternal life in Jesus Christ His Son.”
I looked Charlie, dead in the eye, and stated for the record: “HE CAN KEEP HIS ETERNAL LIFE.” Then I asked Charlie to leave and he did.
I didn’t talk to him for a couple of weeks. I ducked when I saw him in the halls, in class, and in the cafeteria. I think he knew I was still angry with him, but he never seemed to be bothered by it. We might have gone on like that forever, if it hadn’t been for the weight room incident in May.
Charlie had begun to weight train, to improve his upper arm strength, and his hitting. He had since graduated to first string on the team, and we were in contention for the AA state championship. Charlie’s consistency behind the plate was a large part of the reason. “His catching made our pitching look 10 times better,” the coach had been quoted in the school newspaper. “And he has a rocket throwing arm.”
It was a Friday in the weight room, Charlie was working out on the bench and Kevin and Joe came in. Charlie had been lifting barbells when Kevin appeared over him. He grabbed the weighted bar and pushed it down on Charlie’s neck. His arms were like tree trunks and Charlie, whose body had just begun to take shape, still looked like the 98-pound weakling in the Charles Atlas ad compared to Kevin. He was no match for Kevin and Joe together. As Kevin pressed down on him from above, Joe grabbed his ankles and held him down there.
It was around this time, that I was walking by the gym when I saw a small crowd of guys hovering by the weight room door cheering on somebody. Out of curiosity, I walked over to where they were and saw what was going on through window.
“Hey, geek. What you doin’? Trying to pump up that chicken-little body, of yours?” I could hear Kevin taunting. He beared down, and Charlie struggled. His face was red, and he looked weak.
I became frightened for him, and I sprung into action. I pushed my way through the crowd threw open the door and grabbed Kevin and threw him off Charlie. He went sailing into a treadmill, and then Joe was on top of me. I punched Joe in the face. And he fell down. I fell on top of him and kept pounding and pounding. I began taking out the frustrations of the past few months on his face. Kevin got up and came toward us. I could see him out of the corner of my eye. Charlie, who had since gotten up from the bench, grabbed Kevin from behind and held him back. Finally a couple of the other kids grabbed me and pulled me off Joe. The coach came in and everybody scattered except me, Joe, Kevin and Charlie.
When the dust had cleared, I was sitting in the principal’s office taking my punishment with Kevin and Joe.
The principal had only suspended me for two days, ‘in light of all the suffering and tragedy my family had been through.’. He threw the book at Kevin and Joe. A week’s suspension and he barred them from participating in the state baseball tournament. Ouch!
Charlie smiled, shook my hand thanked me for saving him. We were friends again, though the relationship still seemed strained. We no longer spent as much time at each other’s houses.
My life seemed to be drifting. Charlie was right. I had given up on living. Now it seemed like I didn’t do anything at home but lock myself in my room and listen to music.
My mom had gotten involved with a support group for families who had lost members to suicide. Surprisingly enough it was at the Bible Doctrine Church in town. While there, she met this woman named Dotty, who was trying to counsel her back into the land of the living. Mom actually seemed to be improving, though she was not back to being the mom I remembered as a child. Several times she had even told me she was worried about me.
Then one Saturday afternoon, locked in my room, I did something I had never done before, something I said I would never do. I unscrewed the cap from a fifth of Jack Daniels that had belonged to my dad. I had found it cleaning the garage not long after my dad died. I should have thrown it away, but for some reason, I kept it and hid it my closet
I was going to get stinking drunk, and I didn’t care. I had always hated drinking. I thought it made people look stupid, and I had once made an arrogant vow never to drink.
Forgetting this vow now, I turned up the bottle and took what I thought would be a long drink. I choked and spit part of it back out into the bottle. The taste burned the back of my throat. It was bitter like quinine. But what I had managed to take in, felt warm going down like someone was hugging me. I took another drink and felt a little ‘buzz’ in my head.
I was getting drunk, I thought. “Good. I don’t care,”.I said.
I was mad at life. Mad at God, most of all. I shook my fist at Him, and raged. “Why did you put me here to suffer, God? Why did you take my Dad, and J.D? Why did you let them die?”
Then I remember something Charlie had told me once about God. How he had allowed His own Son to die on the cross because He loved us so much. None of it made any sense to me.
I screamed up in God’s direction. I wasn’t even sure if He was listening.
I felt like I was at a crossroads and couldn’t decide if I wanted to live or not.
Then I did something rather strange. I screwed the top back on the whiskey, and just lay there for what seemed like an eternity. I could feel myself sobering up. My head pounded.
There was an empty space in my heart, like a jigsaw puzzle with a missing piece. Nothing seemed to fit. My heart was crying out to be filled. Could that be God trying to reach out to me? I wondered.
Instinctively, I knew what to do. I called Charlie and asked him to meet me. We agreed to meet in the park in fifteen minutes. I climbed out the window so I wouldn’t have to confront my mom with the smell of booze on my breath, and walked toward the park only three blocks away. On the way, I stopped at the gas station on the next block and bought a box of Clorets from the vending machine to mask the stench of the booze.
Charlie was sitting on the bench just outside the fence at the practice field, and I could see his Bible in his hand. I was relieved to see him. My buddy. My port in the storm.
He gave me a quick masculine hug, and we sat down on the bench. Standing so close, I could tell by the look on his face that the Clorets hadn’t done their job, but he never said anything about it.
“I need to know about Jesus,” I said, cutting to the chase. “I need to know the truth about Him.”
“Ok,” Charlie said. “I can sure try to answer some of your questions? What do you want to know?”
“You once said He loved me and had a plan for my life,” I continued.
Charlie asked if it was OK if he opened his Bible.
I said it was.
“Roger, I love you like a brother,” He told me. “I hope you know that. Sometimes I wish we were brothers, I don’t know, maybe to make up for the brother you lost.”
This made me feel good to know he cared that much.
Then Charlie began to read from the book of Jeremiah. “‘God said, ‘For I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosper and not harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future.’” He stopped reading and closed the Bible with his finger marking the spot.
“You see, Roger, God doesn’t want to see you get hurt. He loves you and wants the best for you. Jesus is the best He has to give. That is our hope.”
Hope. That sounded great. But how could I know it was real? I asked
“Well, you have to have faith, Roger. Look I can’t stand here and prove to you that God exists, at least not in a way that you can see Him. That’s not what faith is. But you can see what he’s made just by looking around you.”
“I know He exists, because I’ve experienced Him working in my life and seen Him working in the lives of my family members. I know He is faithful to answer our prayers.” He paused and his facial expression changed a little. He seemed to get serious.
“Look, remember I told you that my mom quit work to stay home with my sister, and I had to quit going to private school?”
I nodded.
“Well, there’s more to that story.” I could see his eyes welling up with tears. I felt my heart go out to him, without even knowing what he was going to say.
“Mom had already decided to quit work when she got pregnant. Near the end of the pregnancy, she got sick. She ran fever almost constantly and finally went to the doctor. They hospitalized my mom and decided to go ahead and deliver the baby.”
“Cassie was born with a condition called beta strep. It’s an infection Mom got and passed on to the baby when she was carrying her. I don’t know all the medical reasons for it.”
“I just remember the day she was born, My dad came out of the delivery room with this look on his face, and I just knew something was wrong. I could tell from his eyes that he had been crying and he told us to pray for both Mom and the baby. My grandparents and I were there. So were some people from my church. The doctor had told Dad that Mom was in serious condition, and they had sent her immediately to ICU isolation after Cassie was born. Cassie had been sent to the ICU for newborns. She was critical.
“Dad paused for a long while. I thought he was going to come unglued. He quivered, and finally he said. ‘Cassie may not make it.’
“I got scared, Roger, I was scared and really mad at God. How could God give my mom and dad the baby they had prayed so long for, and then just take her. What kind of a God was he?
“Still I prayed because it was all I could do, and my dad had asked me to do it. I went home and prayed all night. That evening, folks from our church came over and we held a prayer vigil for Mom and Cassie.
“Then the next morning, I woke up and I heard God speaking to me.”
I must’ve looked confused at this point in his story, because Charlie explained the part about God “speaking” to him.
“No, I didn’t hear God out loud. I just knew in my heart that He was trying to tell me something. I remembered this scripture that I had learned in Bible school as a little kid.
“‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will direct your paths,’ Proverbs 3: 5-6. I hadn’t thought about it in years, and there in my time of need, God had brought it back to me.”
“I just kept thinking about that scripture and praying for Mom and Cassie. Then, late that afternoon, My dad called from the hospital. My grandparents and I were afraid it was bad news, but my dad told my grandmother to put me on the phone.
“God heard all the prayers, Charlie, and the antibiotics they gave them are working. Mom and Cassie are going to be OK.”
“After that, I never questioned the existence of God or His goodness again. Over the years, I’ve found that life doesn’t have to be going good, for God to be good. He just is.”
And now, every day I think about how great heaven must be. That’s why I don’t worry about junk that happens down here like bullies messing with me. I just try to focus on heaven, because for a Christian, that’s home, our real home, and it’s going to be so great when we get there and see Jesus.”
I was touched by the story, and moved by God’s power to heal his mom and sister. I had seen God working in Charlie’s life, and I knew that I wanted what he had. The peace that passes understanding. I knew I had to have it to get through. I had heard Charlie talk about being saved, eternal life in Christ. I longed for it. A place in God’s world. A reason for living.
From our previous talks, I knew I was a sinner, and needed to be saved from my sins. I knew God could save me from them, if I would just ask him to, and then turn my life over to Him.
We knelt there in front of the bench that evening, right there near the place we had played catch so many times. In that city park, with my friend, I prayed and asked Jesus to come into my heart and save me.
The memory of that afternoon lingered. Even all these years later. They say a person never forgets the details of his salvation experience. I had never forgotten mine.
I began going to church with Charlie and his family. The evening I was baptized, I invited my mom, but she didn’t show up. I was disappointed, but continued praying for her. I grew in my faith and studied my Bible, a gift from Charlie and his family on the day of my baptism.
I was deeply grateful to Charlie Weems and his family. And eternally grateful to the God that they served. The God that had come to be my own -- the one I, too, now served..
After high school, I had gone on to a Christian college out of state on a scholarship. Charlie had gotten accepted at a state university on a baseball scholarship. In my freshman year, I surrendered to youth ministry. I got a letter in the middle of my sophomore year from my mother. I remember I was shocked that she had written to me. She had written to tell me that she had accepted Christ at one of her support group meetings. I had been praying for her since my conversion, so I rejoiced in her salvation. That day I called to tell her so, and to tell her that I loved her and would be praying for her.
After college, I was called to a small church in Columbus about five hundred miles from Lake City to be their youth minister. I embraced the opportunity to serve God in this calling, and put my whole heart into it. From the first days of my ministry, some of the older ladies in the church kept after me, asking me when I was going to get married. One lady in the church, Mrs. Hawley, would introduce me to young eligible Christian girls in the community. She seemed quite anxious to get me settled down. One Sunday afternoon at a church dinner on the grounds, I met my future wife, Angel. We were married eight months later by the pastor, and our first child, a son we named Jonathan Charles, was born two years later. Our daughter, Rachel was born 13 months after that.
Charlie married Lee Ann at the beginning of his senior year in college and they had a child about 10 months after he graduated. He signed to play AA ball with the Tulsa Drillers, and also served as the team’s chaplain. I got letters from him and we exchanged phone calls every other month or so for several years. I kept meaning to take off and go to one of his games and meet his kids. It just never seemed to work out. Angel and I got wrapped up in work, the church and our lives.
I kept up with his baseball career through mutual friends and his family, and not long ago found out that he and Lee Ann had moved back to Lake City. They had also had another child, a daughter. I got his home number from directory assistance and called his house. His mother answered the phone. It was great to hear her voice after all these years.
“They are at the hospital, Roger,” she said, sounding tired.
I thought perhaps someone in the family was sick. Maybe Charlie’s knees had finally given out and he was having surgery. Nothing could have prepared me for what this dear lady told me next.
“He doesn’t have much time left, Roger. It’s cancer.” She was weeping as she talked. “Lee Ann has been by his side day and night, and the kids are with us at his house.”
I could feel my heart in my throat. Tears began to stream down my face. “I didn’t know,” I said, in a raspy whisper..
“It’s OK, Roger. Charlie didn’t want you to know. He knew you would worry, and he wanted you to remember him like he was.”
“His weight has dropped down to below 100 pounds, and he is on a respirator. He’s barely conscious some days.” She said, overtaken in her grief.
“I have to come,” I said. “There are things I need to say to him.”. How could I have gotten so wrapped up in my life, that I had forgotten my friend? How could I have let that relationship slip away from me. Now I would never get the chance to tell him what our friendship had meant to me.
“Roger,” his mom said. “He loves you. You have always been his best friend, and his father and I have always been grateful to you for befriending him. We prayed for a good friend for him when he transferred to Lake City High School. You were the answer to our prayers.”
“Thank you for telling me that,” I said, choking back tears. “I am going to try to come this week.” I added.
I did make plans to go to Lake City, but that same week Angel, six months into her third pregnancy, was put to bed by her doctor. I felt I needed to stay by her side and canceled the trip. His mother called two days later. Charlie had gone to be with the Lord.
********
After leaving the Gas N’ Go, I drove through town, continuing to take in the sights. It was good to be home again. I wanted to see my mom, who had told me she would meet me at the service. Angel’s mom had come to stay with her and the kids. She told me she would call me if there was an emergency. She knew this was a place I had to be today.
I was asked to deliver the eulogy at the grave side, and I thought of all the things I wanted to say about my friend. I drove a few blocks out of my way and passed the ball park where I met Jesus with him for the first time. Seeing our bench brought back the greatest memory of my life.
After the funeral, Lee Ann came over and hugged me and thanked me for coming, for speaking words of love about my friend. She had aged so much, but was still very beautiful. I saw their girls, their youngest now 6, standing next to her. How she looked like Cassie, I thought. Roger must’ve been proud. Lee Ann handed me an envelope with my name on it and kissed me on the cheek. “You were his best friend, Roger. He never stopped talking about you.”
Those words hung in the air after we had all left the cemetery. I thought of the cemetery workers shoveling dirt over the casket that contained the vacated body of my friend. Charlie was not there. He had gone to see Jesus.
On my way to my mom’s house, I passed by the park again and stopped. I got out of my car and walked over to the bench. It was a beautiful day and I could hear the birds chirping. I felt a light breeze across my face and I looked up into the sun. It felt good, but I could contain myself no more. Standing next to the “bench” I dropped to my knees at the spot where I had accepted Christ 17 years before, and I wept. I wept hard, grieving for my friend. Grieving for lost time with him that I could never get back. Then I stood to my feet and sat down the bench and tore open the envelope.
Inside was a short note written in a shaky hand, no doubt weakened from cancer.
It contained only two paragraphs.
The first was about things we had done as teenagers. Charlie thanked me for my friendship, for our times together and for protecting him from the bullies. He told me he loved me, and not to feel bad that we had lost touch. “I praised God every day for your changed life,” he wrote.
I chuckled after I read the second paragraph of that note. I could see his smiling face as he wrote it.
It consisted of only two short sentences. “By the way, “ it said, “‘by the time you get this, I will be settled into my new ‘home’. Sure is wonderful here. I’ll be waiting for you, brother.”
Friday, November 21, 2008
Pay It Forward
Bob and I just got through watching the movie Pay It Forward on our pastor Greg Kirksey's advice to the church congregation.
Even if you haven't seen the movie, which is several years old, you may know that the story line is predicated on the premise that if someone does something nice for you, instead of paying them back, you should "pay it forward" to three other people.
As a writer, I wasn't terribly impressed with the screenplay (it was somewhat simplistic), but I was moved by the idea.
If someone does something nice for me, I should do something nice for someone else. Hmm. Now this is an idea that could really catch on! (Which, of course, is exactly what happened in the movie.)
I've been thinking a lot about giving lately. About making a "difference." Not the type of giving that gives you a "warm fuzzy" when you do it, but the kind of giving that truly does make a difference in someone's life. Not only have I been thinking, I've tried to take some "baby steps" toward living a life of giving, not just taking.
Last Sunday, I spent a couple of hours helping serve lunch at local homeless shelter. I've never done that before and it was a rather nice experience, but not an epic event. In other words, I don't think Hollywood is is going to come knocking on my door to make a movie about it. And I feel kind bad about that. Not the movie part, but the fact that I didn't feel like Mother Teresa when it was over.
Isn't helping the homeless supposed to be the pinnacle of selflessness? The top rung on the world's "ladder of salvation"? I truly don't know what I was expecting to happen. Maybe I thought a light would shine down from heaven and lives would be changed instantly. The kind of miraculous action that makes the lame walk and the blind see. Truth is, I spent my time there putting ice in cups, pizza on paper plates and filling ziploc bags with Chex Mix and clearance Halloween candy. I don't think I ever even made eye contact with one of the homeless patrons who came for lunch, much less carried on an exhortive conversation with one of them.
I was just an unseen presence on the assembly line -- one of several. Hardly a life saving venture.
Or was it?
Here's the question . . . Do I need to see the results of my "good deed" to know that I've made an impact? Or is it enough that my intentions were to honor God with my efforts?
How do you know when you've paid it forward? In the movie, the act of paying it forward comes full circle when the young heroin of the movie, who birthed the idea because he wanted to see if the world really would change, finds out that his conception has actually crossed state lines and piqued the interest of a reporter, who himself was the recipient of a "pay it forward" deed.
That's Hollywood. This is real life. Truth is, I may never know the true impact of my efforts on behalf of the homeless or most of the other people I attempt to help. At least not in this incarnation. But even the seemingly most insignificant of acts done on behalf of someone who has a need is a stored up trinket our personal treasure chest. And that's OK. It's not about me. (Just keep repeating thatover and over. Eventually it sinks in.)
The Bible says we should store up treasures in heaven. What is a heavenly treasure? It's what God treasures the most out of all his creative handiwork. And the God who created everything, the God who offered the ultimate act of "pay it forward" when he sent his one and only beloved Son to be our salvation from this sinful existence, treasures his greatest creation -- people.
Jesus said if we've done it for the least of his "treasures", we've done it for Him. Who needs earthly validation? God said it. That's enough.
In the movie, (and this is a spoiler if you haven't seen it) an act of paying it forward has tragic consequences for the young heroin. However, his selflessness isn't lost on a watching world. It serves as an inspiration -- an epiphany, if you will. What if because of the selfless, lifegiving act of one, we all paid it forward? The world would change.
Sounds almost like the answer to one of those "What would Jesus do?" questions. And it is. He did.
Because He "paid it forward" to us. We should "pay it forward" to others. Not to receive our own personal "warm & fuzzy feelgood", but because we want to honor the one who started it all. After all, we can never "pay it back". Conclusion: Paying it forward is the only other right option.
Even if you haven't seen the movie, which is several years old, you may know that the story line is predicated on the premise that if someone does something nice for you, instead of paying them back, you should "pay it forward" to three other people.
As a writer, I wasn't terribly impressed with the screenplay (it was somewhat simplistic), but I was moved by the idea.
If someone does something nice for me, I should do something nice for someone else. Hmm. Now this is an idea that could really catch on! (Which, of course, is exactly what happened in the movie.)
I've been thinking a lot about giving lately. About making a "difference." Not the type of giving that gives you a "warm fuzzy" when you do it, but the kind of giving that truly does make a difference in someone's life. Not only have I been thinking, I've tried to take some "baby steps" toward living a life of giving, not just taking.
Last Sunday, I spent a couple of hours helping serve lunch at local homeless shelter. I've never done that before and it was a rather nice experience, but not an epic event. In other words, I don't think Hollywood is is going to come knocking on my door to make a movie about it. And I feel kind bad about that. Not the movie part, but the fact that I didn't feel like Mother Teresa when it was over.
Isn't helping the homeless supposed to be the pinnacle of selflessness? The top rung on the world's "ladder of salvation"? I truly don't know what I was expecting to happen. Maybe I thought a light would shine down from heaven and lives would be changed instantly. The kind of miraculous action that makes the lame walk and the blind see. Truth is, I spent my time there putting ice in cups, pizza on paper plates and filling ziploc bags with Chex Mix and clearance Halloween candy. I don't think I ever even made eye contact with one of the homeless patrons who came for lunch, much less carried on an exhortive conversation with one of them.
I was just an unseen presence on the assembly line -- one of several. Hardly a life saving venture.
Or was it?
Here's the question . . . Do I need to see the results of my "good deed" to know that I've made an impact? Or is it enough that my intentions were to honor God with my efforts?
How do you know when you've paid it forward? In the movie, the act of paying it forward comes full circle when the young heroin of the movie, who birthed the idea because he wanted to see if the world really would change, finds out that his conception has actually crossed state lines and piqued the interest of a reporter, who himself was the recipient of a "pay it forward" deed.
That's Hollywood. This is real life. Truth is, I may never know the true impact of my efforts on behalf of the homeless or most of the other people I attempt to help. At least not in this incarnation. But even the seemingly most insignificant of acts done on behalf of someone who has a need is a stored up trinket our personal treasure chest. And that's OK. It's not about me. (Just keep repeating thatover and over. Eventually it sinks in.)
The Bible says we should store up treasures in heaven. What is a heavenly treasure? It's what God treasures the most out of all his creative handiwork. And the God who created everything, the God who offered the ultimate act of "pay it forward" when he sent his one and only beloved Son to be our salvation from this sinful existence, treasures his greatest creation -- people.
Jesus said if we've done it for the least of his "treasures", we've done it for Him. Who needs earthly validation? God said it. That's enough.
In the movie, (and this is a spoiler if you haven't seen it) an act of paying it forward has tragic consequences for the young heroin. However, his selflessness isn't lost on a watching world. It serves as an inspiration -- an epiphany, if you will. What if because of the selfless, lifegiving act of one, we all paid it forward? The world would change.
Sounds almost like the answer to one of those "What would Jesus do?" questions. And it is. He did.
Because He "paid it forward" to us. We should "pay it forward" to others. Not to receive our own personal "warm & fuzzy feelgood", but because we want to honor the one who started it all. After all, we can never "pay it back". Conclusion: Paying it forward is the only other right option.
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