Tragic & True - The Story Of Genarlow Wilson (My previous blog on the subject)

She was perched upon the church steps, awaiting my return from a quick trip.  I invited her into my office and there she shared with me a pretty desperate situation.  As the story unfolded I knew there would be a plea for financial assistance.  And I was contemplating the proper response even before the request.

As a church which takes seriously our responsibility to help others, we have a system in place.  We contribute to Hands Of Christ, a wonderful interdenominational social ministry, and generally help local outsiders through their ministries.  And we have a benevolence ministry which receives ongoing contributions to help those more connected with our church.  However, many requests and many people fall between these two particular resources.  As I listened I could tell that her needs would probably be such.  Helping people like her is an inexact science.  What I generally do is to listen carefully, and seek wisdom and guidance from God with how to respond.

Her request was quite modest and so we were able to arrange adequate assistance.  And she was quite talkative, so I listened to her story.  This was a lonely person, desperately in need of fellowship.  I knew that a fellowship of Christians, who would love and affirm her, would be a great answer to her deepest needs.  I shared with her what we had to offer through our church and encouraged her to attend.  She seemed deeply touched.  We prayed, and she promised to attend our church.  Her receptivity could have been genuine, or it could have been nicety simply because I had the “upper hand” at the moment.  And we talked on the phone a few times in the weeks ahead.  But, she never attended our church.  Never.  And this brings me to some questions about giving.

Can we insist that people we help must come to our church?  Can we allow ourselves to become hardened about helping others, because sometimes we get “burned”?&nbs p; To me, the answer is, “Of course not”.  Often we have little indication of the work God is doing in a person’s life.  We are simply, although profoundly, part of the process.  With every expression of genuine love we are instruments of God.  Let’s trust God, and be faithful. 

“Freely you have received.  Freely give.” – Matthew 10:8.

We toured the World of Coke and the Aquarium.  The former was basically a tribute to commercialism, which disappointed me because I think Coca Cola is the best tasting drink in the world.  The experience was redeemed somewhat at the end, as I was allowed endless samples of flavors of Coke from all over the world.  I particularly liked some of the South American varieties, although I think they gave me Montezuma's Revenge.

The Aquarium is an amazing experience.  The variety of sea creatures, and the fantastic views are so available that it is easy to overlook how very incredible is the scene before you.  


Above are a couple of photos.  Usually I will edit such pictures to remove distracting factors, like empty space and strangers.  However I came to notice the lady in both photographs.  She looked familiar.  I thought, and then it came to me.  I was being stalked by Ashley Smith, the hero of the Brian Nichols ordeal a few years ago in Atlanta.  You can google her story and her face to discover that, indeed, she is the lady following me at the aquarium.  I can tell you, right now, this is going to get old having beautiful women and celebrities follow me around all the time.  I have not bothered to tell my wife about this personal cross that I must bear, lest she roll her eyes and refuse to respond once again.

Should you ever come to this area, I would love to meet you and point you to some great things to do!

Shopping for a car is quite an adventure.  And it does not help to bring my wife along for the experience.  Inevitably she tends to bond with the salesman.  She finds every one to be endearing and cute, and does not want to do or say anything that might be hurtful to the “little guy”.  I find it interesting how the salesman, no matter his previous persona, seems to morph into a strange reflection my wife and me.  He finds out I’m a preacher, and lo and behold, he points out a Bible sitting on his sales desk.  He discovers that Deb sells Health supplements, and we discover his avocation is physical fitness.  So the next thirty minutes of conversation will be sprinkled with church talk and questions about vitamins, and of course the pursuit of The Sale.

I am interested in shopping, not buying, for the moment.  At first it is awkward to tell the guy just how little car I am seeking, and just how little money I am willing to pay.  He wants to sell a Lexus.  I’m looking for the equivalent of an ’84 Yugo, windows optional.  Literally I can see the drain of his demeanour when he realizes the commissions from our sale will not finance his next trip to Bermuda.  It probably will not even pay to cut his Bermuda grass.  Still, being a good sales soldier, he marches on. 

He asks, “Sir, will you be making a trade-in?”  I point out my ’94 Town-And-Country Wagon (this is the truth!).  He asks why it is parked so awkwardly at the exit of the parking lot.  I hesitate, and then decide again that I’m supposed to tell the truth.  “It’s a good car,” I say.  “It’s just missing a few things, like reverse.”  When he stares at me, without a reply, I feel obligated to say something to keep the conversation moving.  “You know, I’m finding that reverse is a highly optional gear.  All you have to do is park on a hill, so you can roll the car back.  Or, just have a couple of teenagers ride along with you.  They can push you out of almost any predicament.”  I see him mark off the trade-in option from his little notepad. 

So now it is time to run a credit check.  I actually have good credit.  It is a redeeming quality at a time like this.  The guy returns from checking, and is obviously re-energized.  He would be glad to sell me any car on the lot!  So, we head out to look at cars, and I quickly direct him past the new ones and toward the clunkers.  Actually, I’m interested in the great deals advertised in the newspaper.  And of course they are mostly gone, or look nothing like the printed descriptions.  Except for one vehicle.  It is a 4-year-old-car, and looks mighty fine to my wife and I.  It is low mileage, and shines like new.  I quickly discern why it has not previously sold.  It is a stick-shift, and thus hard to sell.  However, I like to drive a 5-speed. 

We talk about payments.  Now here is a matter that I think every person negotiating to buy a car should understand.  The Doc Fee is nothing but a pure-profit-rip-off on the part of the dealership.  And these guys wanted to add $589!    My wife likes the cute little salesman who loves Jesus and vitamins and has two sweet kids and is just trying to make enough money to survive.  So she is concerned when my eyes narrow, smile goes away, and I tell them, “I’ll not pay it.  You will have to find a way to absorb this fee into the price of the car.  And, the price is too high.”  He grabs the paperwork to go back to talk with his Manager.  I’m doubting there is even a manager in the back room.  Rather likely, our salesman sits at a table with a cup of coffee, and then comes back and pretends to have negotiated on my behalf.  Thus I am surprised when a jovial fellow in a tie comes to the table.  Yes, he will take the deal!

So, we go out for a test drive.  As soon as I pull from the parking spot, I see that the “check engine” light is on.  I pull back in and return the keys.  He says it is nothing.  They will fix it after I buy it!  Sure they will.  And thus, another three hours of my life spent in the void otherwise known as car shopping.

We creep down the road headed for home.  The worn shocks make the van bounce up and down, like a boat upon water.  One makes a consistent banging noise from the back.  I tell Deb not to worry.  We consider buying gas, but do not spy a pull-through pump.  And did I tell you the front end shimmies at speeds above 45 mph?  But at least the “check engine” light is not glowing.  I guess it cannot, since the fuse has been removed.

Anybody want to trade for a good van?

50 Things You Need To Know By 50
Rather interesting, especially since recently I unwittingly and unwillingly entered into this age category. So, I'll interact with a few of these. You are welcome to join in.

3. Law of the Olive Garden
The waitress is not hitting on you. Being friendly is her job.

Now, that hurts. I could have gone the rest of my life without having this obvious matter to be stated so bluntly. I guess this means I am not so charming and witty to the employees at Waffle House? They do not look beyond my age to grasp a kindred spirit. They simply want a good tip. Crestfallen is the word.


4. No matter how many times you bring your mitt to the game, the manager will never gaze out into the stands, land his eyes on you, and say, "Hey, how about that guy?"

It could happen. I was a pretty good right fielder in Little League, at least for the one inning each game that I played. Players do get hurt. Even major league teams get desperate. I'm going to hang onto this dream for yet a while longer.


7. Look Like You've Lost Weight

• Grow your sideburns 1/2 inch longer.
• Style your hair 1/4 inch higher than normal to make your face seem thinner.
• Wear rectangular-framed glasses.
• Choose a three-button suit, instead of a two-.
• Remember the basics: vertical stripes.

Let's see... I have no sideburns, my hair is flat, and I wear oval-framed glasses. My suit is two-button, solid black. How do I look?


13. Fire Someone
(Donald Trump)

Whether you're supernice or just plain blunt, the result is always the same: the person has been fired, and they're going to hate your guts. Time might lessen the impact, but initially they aren't going to take kindly to your trying to make it seem okay, because it's not okay by them. So just be honest and let everyone move on.

I will be semi-serious for a moment. Isn't this so true about human nature? There is really no good way to fire someone. Of course, a nice severance package with extended benefits and a letter of endorsement would be a good effort. Still, the aggrieved party will most likely hate you.


16. How to Take a Compliment
(Kathy Ireland)
A compliment is a gift. It's not relevant that you may not agree with the giver's opinion of you. In some ways the compliment is not even about you; it's about the fact that someone else cared enough to think of you and to share his or her thoughts in a positive way. So the best way to handle one? With a heartfelt "thank you."

There is an art to receiving a compliment. I'm not very good at it. Although I do not know this person (I'm pretty sure a Google search would reveal a beautiful woman), she makes a great point. Whatever the words, the greatest compliment is that someone would think so well of you to express such an opinion. Instead of arguing with the person, or going the other extreme to agree with the compliment, expend your gratitude that such a kind person has blessed you by coming your way.

SEPARATED AT BIRTH?

Just was eating a bag of popcorn when I thought of this uncanny resemblance.  Could it be...?  The popcorn just didn't taste the same anymore.

Well, the chickens do come home to roost.

My son, my precious and mysterious son of almost 18 years, informed me the other afternoon that he could not go with me to grab a hamburger because he had an “important meeting” with someone at the mall.  I was curious for a moment, but then decided it was most likely a job interview, or perhaps a counselling session with one of his peers concerning his equally mysterious relationships with girls.  And so I was shocked, and I use the word with due consideration, when he asked if my wife and I would go with him to meet with the Marine Recruiter.

Now here is where it becomes a very complicated and personal issue for me.  I am conservative religiously and politically.  When I see a young man in the uniform, I shake his hand and tell him I am both proud and supportive of his service to our country.  My wife’s father was a career man of the Navy.  He loved his country and served with valour during World War II.  His ship was sunk in warfare, and family informed of his death.  But he survived.  And my brother served in Viet Nam, although by conscript through the draft.  He had the duty to disarm landmines.  I’m sure the task was by order, also.  Many of the men and women of my church, whom I highly admire, served with distinction in various branches of the armed services.

Me?  I graduated from High School in 1975.  My family had little interest in politics, although mom irritated me with a stock photo of George Wallace in the family album.  And it is still there.  My conscience awakened to the social turmoil in America through reading the newspapers of the school library, and watching Walter Cronkite on the nightly television news.  It was sobering and negative:  Body counts; disingenuous so-called peace accords; campus protests galore; and, of course, the likes of John Kerry telling the world what bastards were our military.  At ages 14-18, I would have been unable to put my impressions into distinct words, but an understanding of the situation was settled into my mind.  This war would not be won.  The enemy was fierce and would not play by the rules.  The political opponents in America were ruthless and tireless.  And smart.  They portrayed this war with all of its ugliness right there upon the television screens in our living rooms.  Moms, grand-moms, and little kids could see soldiers blown apart.  The strategy worked brilliantly.  Those with ideological agendas which would never, ever allow them to support any war at anytime used the media to lose this war, not on the battlefields of Southeast Asia, but in the tired hearts and minds of hometown Americans.  And I was one of those.  I did not know a lot.  But I knew I had no interest in going to Viet Nam to fight in an impossible-to-win war, protracted with a deadly and half-hearted effort, only perhaps to come home to be scorned and spat upon. 

Fortunate for me, I did not have to burn my draft card or move to Canada.  Or, more realistically, acquiesce to a service that I would hate.  Perhaps I would have become a gun ho hero.  Perhaps I would have died in an ambush.  More likely I would have survived the tour of duty, and lived with the scars and ambivalence of many that I now admire.  Instead Nixon was elected.  The war ended.  The draft was discontinued.  And, I went to College.

So now my son has announced his desire to serve in the Marines.  He has talked about it throughout his adolescence.  I’ve pushed it away as just the idealized dreamings of a kid.  But his dreams have not gone away.  He wants us to meet with the Recruiter.

I was upset.  I told him in no uncertain terms, “No”.  I spoke directly, and severely, not to a kid but to an adult. 

For several years, we have extracted and received from him a repeated promise to pursue a College education.  A purpose of this has been to temper his desire for military service.  I have not been anti- military with this strategy.  My thinking was that a 22-year-old College graduate could make a wiser decision concerning military service than an 18-year-old.  Now, several weeks later, I still believe that ideal.  I asked him about that commitment, which I considered to be his binding word.  He believed the Marines would help him to secure his education.  And then, in rapid-fire manner, I spewed out some hard-felt opinions.  This recruiter is a salesman.  He is not interested in your well-being.  You are not his son; you are part of a quota for the month.  This war is headed for disaster.  There is not a will of the American people, and certainly of our representatives in Washington, to claim a military victory.  There are just enough soldiers deployed, and just enough support back home, to make a mess and kill our brave men and women.  Likely a Democrat will be our next president, and then all Hell will break loose in our world and especially for our military.  Given that scenario, I told him, I am not willing to sacrifice my son.  I pray for him.  I love him.  I continue to sacrifice, much, for him.  And he is not worth this cause.

My son was quite upset.  His appearance crestfallen, and tears in his eyes, he went to his room and slammed the door.  And so did I.  My son will turn 18 in a few months, and I have little doubt he will then sign upon the dotted line.  I love him dearly.  He is no longer a kid, and almost a man.  And I have to handle this like a man, also.  I want to be a person of integrity concerning my family, faith, and country.

Matters have moved somewhat to a conclusion.  Love.  Prayer.  Communication.  Time.  Such are important ingredients to such vital matters of life.  I’ll share more in the next post.