Today, something prompted me to think back to a time in the 3rd Grade when I first learned the limits of ultimate power.

The teacher was going be out of the classroom for a while and for some crazy reason selected me to be the Class Monitor. I was not a teacher favorite. Sometimes my desk would be placed abut to hers, in front of the class and literally about two feet from where she would sit and teach, for purposes of punishment and to keep an eagle eye on a misbehaving kid. Other times I would be sent to stand in the hallway just to give the teacher, and class, a break. So, her selection of me for this coveted assignment was unusual- perhaps she was trying to stir within a sense of trust, or accountability? It did not work.

My job was to stand in the front of the class, piece of chalk in hand, to write on the board the names of any out-of-line kids. Several times, previously, other class members had taken on the role. Most were too timid, or good-natured, to write any names on the board. A few took the job seriously, but then paid dearly at recess or after school. I decided to have some fun with the matter. First I walked back and forth in front, eying class members warily. Then I wrote on the chalkboard the names of several kids who had previously never gotten into any kind of trouble. Model students- liked by the teacher, and by extension not so well liked by me. One particular girl, seems I remember her name as “Susan”, saw her name on the board and started pleading with me to erase it. I looked at her, and then asked, “Are you talking out loud? You know you are not supposed to do that!” Then I put a check mark by her name, and then several more as her protest grew more desperate.  About that time some of the other good kids banded together in verbal rebellion. So I wrote their names on the board, too. Mutiny was about to ensue when the teacher returned.

Little Susan, with big tears rolling down her face, cried out to the teacher that she had done nothing wrong. I simply smiled with gleaming eyes. Without a word the teacher walked directly to the board and erased all my hard work. Then she looked at me with steely eyes, and pointed me toward the hallway. She never again gave me the job.

Many years later, Susan still would cross the road a block ahead of me to avoid our meeting. Gee, what was her problem?

I am likely to be facing a dilemma today with a community service worker.

Larry contacted me a week ago, needing to do 20 hours of work no later than January 26, tomorrow.  This had been assigned to him by a Judge about a month ago.  I asked him why he waiting until the last week and did not get a definitive answer.  Still there was plenty of time, I told him, if he would be diligent about the matter.  He has multiple health issues resulting from a stroke and a broken neck.  He is mobile, but moves slowly and deliberately.  As I understand it he was involved in an auto accident caused by driving while under the influence of heavy medication.  It was not a smart move, and I am glad to know no one was hurt.  I am pretty sure there is more to the story.  But he seems to be nice guy (they all do!) and I feel compassion for his health challenges.  So we agreed on what I thought to be pretty simple tasks.  He would be given corresponding hours of credit for the work.  Cleaning and disinfecting the toys in the nurseries- 5 hours.  Lightly polishing the pews and wood grain in the church sanctuary - 5 hours.  Separating and repotting the green plants in the church – 5 hours.  And, cleaning the church sign – 5 hours.  I believe these jobs can be done at a leisurely pace and in half the time, even for someone with limited mobility.

Tomorrow is the day of accounting with the County Judge, and Larry has only completed 10 hours.  Three days ago he could not work because he was traveling to see his son.  Yesterday he called to say his hands and feet were hurting.  I have the suspicion he will approach me, later today, and with great concern and utter sincerity ask me credit him with the 20 hours of work on his promise to will later complete the responsibilities.  The guy obviously has some serious health issues, and most likely he also uses too much heavy medication.  I'm thinking the easy tasks and liberal crediting of hours are ways to show him I care. 

Should this scenario play out, should I sign the paper and trust him?

This morning was my long dreaded trip to the dentist to have a cap put on an upper incisor.  I have heard of people who forego the Novocain because they do not like the way it makes them feel.  In my estimation there is something wrong with such people.  I have been known to ask for a double-shot.  When I tell my wife, she calls me a coward and a baby.  But then she apologizes and wipes away my tears.  My dentist is a Korean lady, sweet with big brown eyes.  She sees I am nervous and tries to make small talk with her broken English.  I tell her one thing I really like about going to her office is that I do not understand what she and her assistant are saying to one another and so there is less for me to choose to be nervous about.  She could be saying “Give me the hammer and chisel,” and I would never know.  Of course she could also be saying, “Hand me the leeches”, or more probably  ”What a sissy little man”, and as long as she smiles and nods approvingly it will register as alright with me.

I can tell you there are 140 full, and 23 partial, tiles on the ceiling of the office.  The plastic air vent cover has 420 open squares.  The secretary is Latino, again with a heavy and broken accent.  I can just imagine the challenges of communication that take place in that office.  I paid her with cash, something obviously unusual.  She said, “Thank you!”  With numb lips and padding in my mouth I replied, “Hapf uh niks dayh”.  I did not really mean it.

Now I’m back to my office and all is well.  The next visit will be in four weeks in which she will remove the temporary crown and cement into place the permanent, custom made fang.  She will also remove another payday from my wallet.

Perhaps I should have ordered a gold tooth?

I am going to attempt, for the next few days, to use this space here on t-Blog to journal some thoughts.  Not necessarily important or interesting insights, nor even complete sentences, just thoughts.

In a little while I will be dropping by the hospice to see a longstanding church attender, a man I consider a friend.  Technically he is not a member of my church because he has an admitted fear of having his head put under water.  So I guess he is one strike against our Baptist insistence upon immersion!  He and I have talked extensively about his spiritual condition, and as far as my vote goes I think he is OK for Heaven.  Of course I think it is silly that preachers sometimes position themselves, especially at funerals, as arbiters of who will make it into God’s good graces.  Not so long ago I participated in conducting a funeral along with another minister.  I knew the deceased although not well, so my focus with what I had to say was to comfort those who were grieving with the assurance that God loved and cared for them.  The other preacher was a store clerk, and as I remember he sold shoes to the man on a few occasions.  He emphasized several times, with his message, the deceased was now in Heaven.  After the funeral, as we were milling around and soon to drive to the gravesite, I asked my fellow minister how he could be so sure about our friend’s eternal state?   He did not say anything, so I pressed a bit.  Did you ever talk with him about such matters?  Did he ever attend the church you pastor?  The answer was no.  So I stated my opinion- we step out of line when we try to “preach” anybody into, our out of, Heaven.  In reality this man had preached his own funeral sermon with his life and it was now open for all to interpret.  I believed our job, as ministers at a funeral, was to comfort the family all the while having integrity for the Lord we serve.  He did not say much, but then again at the graveside assured the family this man was now in Heaven.  I hope so.  It is not my judgment to make.  But I sure do not want this guy selling me shoes or preaching my funeral!

So it is off to see my friend in hospice.  By the way, I am sold on hospice as an alternative to a hospital or nursing home setting.  Then I have a Baptist luncheon meeting, where we will discuss Baptist business for a couple of hours.  Afterwards, off to see mom for our bi-weekly get together. 

Admittedly not the most fun day ahead!  It is good to have a job when the economy is so tough on so many.  And it gives me rest, inside, to believe I seek to give comfort and hope to those I meet along the way.  Such is opportunity, and duty, for all of us I believe.

It troubles me that Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. most likely was unfaithful to his wife on numerous occasions.  I say “most likely” because, of course, I was not there.  The FBI conducted electronic surveillance for many years and purported to have proof of many infidelities, but the records were sealed until 2027.  A fellow hero of the civil rights movement, David Abernathy, wrote of his “weakness for women”.  Biographer David Garrow wrote about a number of extramarital affairs. 

He identified himself as a Baptist and Christian.  I know a lot of self-proclaimed Baptists and Christians choose to be unfaithful to their mates.   This reflects more poorly on selves than the faith they represent.  Martin Luther King Jr. was a church leader as a chosen identity.  He graduated from Seminary and held church staff positions.  He led in worship times, preached sermons, and ad infinitum invoked the name of Jesus Christ.  He chose the title Reverend and used it to advance his cause.  But when a man chooses to be a Minister, and a Pastor, then he chooses to become a public representative of his Christian faith.  Christianity teaches and expects faithfulness in marriage.  Forgiveness is offered to all who repent.  But a pattern of behavior, the same sin repeated over and over, reveals a lack of true repentance.  A serial adulterer, by his behavior, forfeits his right to be a church leader.  Maybe I am naïve or simplistic with my understanding?  But if I discover that my Pastor continues with a series of sexual liaisons with women other than his wife, then I think it is time for him to find another job and title.

I admire Dr. King.  Not so much Rev. King.

Now I understand that great men can have feet of clay.  With the New Year I have begun again to try to read through the Bible, starting with Genesis.  With the reading I am reminded that so many of the heroes of the faith do really stupid things.  After surviving the great flood, Noah gets roaring drunk and exposes himself.  Fearing for his life, Abram tries to pass his wife off as his sister, and apparently is not too troubled that she will be having sex with an infidel king.  Years later, son Isaac attempts a similar sick maneuver with his wife, Rebekah.  Of course we know the scheming of Jacob to rob his brother of a rightful birthright.  So the theme is set with the Bible- men are flawed, and only God is perfect.  And I also believe a person can do great things and yet have flawed areas, and chapters, of life.  I admire Thomas Jefferson, author of the great words of our Constitution including “…all men are created equal…”.  He fooled around with Sally Hemming, owned slaves, and hypocritically did not provide for their release after his death- even as he wrote to John Adams in his final years that he feared standing before God to give account of such evil.  

I support the Martin Luther King Day holiday and accompanying celebrations.  He has come to represent matters much higher and more important than himself.  While in College I once attended 16^th Street Baptist Church and was warmly greeted by the church and pastor.  I watched the choir sway and sing, “If the whole world loved Jesus, what a wonderful world it would be!”   This is notable because, 13 years earlier, white racists detonated a load of dynamite under the church steps, killing four little girls.  The societal changes that occurred in the next decade allowed me to freely worship at this church and to receive an embrace from their pastor.  Martin Luther King Jr. was the leader of this movement of change.  He preached and practiced nonviolence, even in the faces of evil men like Bobby Lee Cherry and Bull Connor.  He was a great organizer and leader.  And he was a tremendous speaker- I remember as a young preacher snatching a few lines from the “I Have A dream” sermon, but somehow the words did not resonate as powerfully from me!  

I have learned in life that it is unfair and ultimately disappointing to put any person on too high of a pedestal.  He may have accomplished things of note, but in the end he is still a frail and imperfect human being.  The closer he is examined the more this becomes reality.  I remember watching on television an interview with John Lewis, a Congressman from Atlanta and true civil rights legend.  He knew King well, and seems regularly to be at the forefront of Martin Luther King Day celebrations.  As he was being asked about some imperfection concerning Dr. King, Lewis looked at the camera and humbly replied, “He was just a man.  Nothing more.”  I agree.  God alone deserves a higher place.  

In 1988, and again 2007, the American Film Institute chose as the greatest movie of all time Citizen Kane.  So I decided it was time to see what was so good about this old black-and-white film made in 1941.  My wife and I sat down to watch it.  She left after about an hour, proclaiming it to be boring.  I stayed.  And now that I’ve watched and thought about it, I can understand how the film has stood the test of time.  It is a worthy study of a classic lesson of life, and even of scripture- you cannot make someone love you.  As far as the eye could see, Charles Foster Kane had it all: money, power, influence.  He used all he had to manipulate all he could.  Kane was able to marry the daughter of the future President.  He brought about a war with Spain.  He amassed a vast and wealthy newspaper empire, even buying out the employees of his rival.  In his later years, he bought and furnished an elaborate estate in Florida dubbed Xanadu, 49000 acres of opulence and testimony to the owner.  But with all that he possessed, he died a lonely man.  He clutched in his hand a snow globe and muttered his final word, “rosebud”.  The film is a quest by newspaper reporters for the meaning of this strange utterance.

A quote from a longtime business associate Jedidiah Leland gives insight to Kane: "He married for love -- that's why he did everything. That's why he went into politics. It seems we weren't enough. He wanted all the voters to love him, too. All he really wanted out of life was love. That's Charlie's story -- it's the story of how he lost it. You see, he just didn't have any to give."

His second wife was Susan Alexander, a beautiful and sweet lady who wanted to sing, but her problem was that she was not very good at singing.  As time moved on, she became aware of her limitations and begged her husband to let her end the perfomances.  However he demanded that she continue, even against brutal professional reviews and mockery from the audiences.  Her love for him died.  Finally, amidst the opulence of Xanadu, she resolved to leave Charles and go back to Chicago.  He begged her to stay and promised to change.  She almost relented, until he protested as a little child, “You can’t do this to me.”  Even simple Susan recognized the theme of his life-  all was about him.  His life and all that he tried, was about manipulating others to love him. 

Rosebud?  After Kane died, the glitzy treasure accumulated at Xanadu was auctioned.  That which would not sell was trashed and burned.  An item seen tossed into the furnace is an old snow sled emblazoned on the front with the name “Rosebud”.  It was the sled Kane enjoyed as a little boy, a simple and magical period of life brutally ended when his mother shipped him off to boarding school, never to see her again.  I’m thinking he spent the rest of his life trying to reclaim simple happiness and simple love.  But he could not buy it.  And he could not manipulate others to grant him what he wanted most. 

The nature of films have changed.  They are now a lot more glitzy, filled with non-stop action, complicated plots, and plenty of sex.  I guess this simple, black-and-white movie cannot compete in keeping our surface attention.  But I doubt anything Hollywood produces today comes close to touching this exploration of an empty heart.

By the way, number 2 on the AFI list is The Godfather.  I’ve seen it, and it is indeed a fine film.  But it is not one of the very best, and every sequel gets worse.  Number 3 is Casablanca, the old Bogart classic.  Play it again, Sam!  It is about time that I see this film.  Likely, after 30 minutes my wife will leave me alone to watch the rest.  So, I will need some company.  Can I buy your love for a bowl of popcorn?

I recently finished the audio version of The Privilege Of Youth , by Dave Pelzer.  A few months ago I dragged myself through his first book, A Child Called It , a relentlessly horrifying and true account of a little boy fighting to somehow survive his psychotic mother.  The first book dragged on and on about his episodes of torture.  It kept me angry, but also impatient for the survival and change that I knew would be coming.  It was emotionally draining.  So I approached this second book as a trial.  If it continued the same unbroken, downbeat cadence, then I resolved to skip to the ending and then read something a bit less heavy.  But indeed it has proven to be more encouraging.  It is about his coming of age as a foster child.

Pelzer portrays himself as a socially inept teenager who seems to get hit hard by life at every turn.  He is bullied by the boys, scorned by the girls, and mostly shunned by adults.  Of course he is a strange kid.  His mom and siblings literally treated him as an animal, so he learned little about healthy social interaction.  But the book is mostly about how he finds redemption through a few ordinary people who found ways to care.  He forged meaningful friendship with a couple of neighborhood kids, whose parents managed to tolerate him.  They roamed and sometimes terrorized the neighborhood.  They built go-carts and spied upon pretty girls, the kinds of stuff pre-teens boys tend to do.  And some men of the neighborhood managed to serve as mentors.  One was a beer drinking ex-marine who spoke in clichés and worked at a local factory, but seemed to always have time for a chat.  Another was a part-time mechanic whose garage served as the local gathering place for the men of the neighborhood.  He helped young Pelzer to fix his broken-down bikes, carts, and cars, and in the process came to serve as the father-figure he so very much needed.

These were just ordinary men with their own families, jobs, personal problems and otherwise busy lives.  None signed on a dotted line to change lives.  And yet they deeply impacted the life of Dave Pelzer.  He was not an attractive little boy and his story does not very well fit into a Hollywood movie.  But Sarge, the ex-Marine, got red in the face and lectured incessantly when Dave announced he would be quitting school.  And the shade-tree mechanic taught him how to change the oil and take care of his first car.  These are the kinds of things little lost boys need.

The Jerry Sandusky story makes me sick.  In such a jaded culture, it is increasingly difficult to mentor children.  But I know there are a lot of kids whose lives are very difficult and who desperately need someone who cares.

Check out this guy’s story .

Today I went to see Mom at the assisted living facility.  It is not my scheduled day for a visit, but seems the right thing to do since it is Christmas Eve.  Her being there is yet another of those broken promises made years ago when life seemed simpler to understand!  Always I have a tinge of guilt and wish it could be different, but in my heart I know it is her best living situation because of her condition of mid-stage Alzheimer’s.     There are about ten residents, all female, and two to four aides on duty fastidiously providing care.  The caretakers are always sweet and seem to truly care for their patients.

My habit for these visits is to bring Mom her favorite drink, a Coca Cola.  Well, this tradition has been complicated by her new friendship with one of the residents, whom I will call Ruth.  I’ve known Ruth for several months; she seems a good-hearted lady with a quick smile.  She likes to talk of her hometown of Carrollton, how good is her daddy, and a truck she loves to drive.  I will try to remember such details and quiz her about them when visiting, and she always seems happy that I know so much about her life.  But Ruth also has a hankering for Coca Cola.   One time a few weeks ago I saw her eying my mom’s drink.  I did not think too much about it, and then my attention was diverted for a few minutes.  When I returned, I found Ruth with the bottle upturned, chugging the drink as Mom looked on.  Silly me, I said, “Now Ruth, that’s not yours.  Give that drink back!”  She brought the drink down from her lips, held tightly with her grip, and looked at me for a moment with gunslinger eyes.  Then slowly she raised it back to swallow the rest, all the time maintaining eye contact.  I realized Ruth was not a woman to be messed with, so for the last several visits I’ve brought along two Cokes.  All is now fine.

This morning we all sat together in the visiting areas as an extended family of parents and teenagers regaled us with Christmas songs.  I noticed the teenage boy, maybe 14 years of age, was badly off key and that the mother did not know the correct version of 12 Days Of Christmas.  Of course it did not matter, and it was extremely nice of these people to care so much.  Particularly they were singing for their Grandmother, a tiny little lady slumped over in a wheelchair.  I know her because she can alternately cuss like a sailor, and then smile with an angelic face while saying “I love you”.  This morning as they sang, she was crying out, “I want to go home, I want to go home!”  And I started crying for just a moment.

Then the lady sitting next to me reached over to hold my hand.  Before that moment, we had never really connected.  Her habit, every day, was to incessantly wander the halls and babble incoherently.  At times I tried, without success, to have conversation.  But this time she was smiling, and holding my hand.  It only lasted for a few seconds, and then we both focused again on the singers.  As I listened, I noticed that sometime she would sing with them.  Not precisely.  And she indeed had a pretty voice.  Obviously in the past she had found meaning in these simple little carols, and the same warmth was still there in her heart.  So for a few minutes we smiled together, made periodic eye contact, and sang Silent Night. 

And, for me, this was one of those unexpected and magical moments to be treasured!

Today a man told me his teenage nephew took a piece of glass and proceeded to repeatedly slash the inside of his forearm because his girlfriend broke off the relationship.  I understand the raw angst of just being a teenager and the great pain of losing a first love- been there, done that.  But it seems to me there should be enough respect for self and commitment to something or someone other than a love relationship to be able to survive this admittedly painful experience.  Faintly I remember, when my first love dumped me, that I found strength to carry on through friends, faith, a busy life, and another girl!  I encourage any young person whose heart is broken to do nothing crazy.  Somewhere and sometime along the way you will find someone more compatible, someone even better for you.  Learn and grow from the experience.

Many times I have interacted with people who have been deeply injured because of a broken relationship.  And since I was not present to observe the interaction and deterioration, usually I try to simply listen and not pass judgment concerning who may be at fault.  I know a major purpose of dating is to test your connection and attraction to another person.  Such will either grow stronger or weaker.  And when it becomes clear this is not someone you need to continue to be with- then comes the necessary breakup.  It is not easy.  Some people are better at it than others.  Looking back, admittedly I was not very good from either side of the equation.

Just yesterday a man was telling me how he was finished, absolutely done, with a particular woman.  Theirs had been a long-term and volatile relationship.  And I agree they had given it their all, and this thing most likely was not going to work.  It was an ugly story filled with most everything a bad soap opera would contain.  But I had heard this before.  Several times before he had said the same things in most convincing manner.  And then, next thing I knew, they were back  together like two lovebirds, only to repeat the same pattern again.  So I listened for several minutes as he waxed eloquently about his tough resolve, and then I interjected matter-of-factly, “Yeah, you’ll take her back...”  He quieted for a moment and looked at me quizzically.  I continued, “Because you love her.”  He smiled sheepishly, and said, “Yeah.  I guess you’re right.”  It is not nice to call someone’s bluff like that.  But, I figured, this guy needed to know he was not fooling anyone except himself.

I’m sorry, and I know it hurts, but the truth is- it takes more than an attraction or even love for someone to make a healthy relationship.  You can love a person, yet not be able to live with her or him.  And I realize learning this lesson can sure hurt.  But- much more painful is to never learn.