Billy's Grand Adventure

Some of you may remember Billy Brown from the first story in this series. Billy was a TV repairman who lived in Shack Rag. His parents had lived there also and were buried in the Boone’s Chapel Methodist Church cemetery, along with the rest of the Shake Rag community who had gone on to their reward. Billy had one arm but could carry a full 32 inch in-cabinet TV all by himself. He was also single and had a twinkle in his eye toward my sister Judy. Perhaps that’s another story. I went to visit Billy a couple of weeks ago. The Sullivans were having a family reunion and Mama Bea originated from that clan of Irish Southerners. I decided to drive out to the Boone’s Chapel cemetery and that’s where I visited with Billy Brown. He too had gone on to his great reward some years ago. There was his marker, right next to his mama and daddy. It was a nice marker and his resting place was in the corner of the cemetery, just a few over from Mama Bea and Daddy Freeman. Seeing Billy reminded me of a trip that he once took on the Continental Trailways bus. Continental Trailways and Greyhound were the main contenders for transportation years ago. You could travel north and south on the Illinois Central Railroad and some of the brave souls could fly. The bus, however, went in all directions. I suspect there were few Shake Rag citizens who rode the train and even fewer flew, except for those who went to war in Europe and that conflict that flared up in Korea. So Billy wanted to take a trip on the bus. Trailways was offering a special at the time whereby an individual could buy a thirty day ticket and you could travel anywhere in the continental United States during that thirty days. It didn’t matter how many times you got off and on. You just had to be sure and time it so that you were home before the thirty days ran out. Billy figured this would be a good and cheap way to see the country so he began planning. Billy was a smart man. He didn’t want to be bothered by luggage so he packed a few clothes and necessities in boxes and shipped them ahead of him so that they would be waiting at the bus terminal when he arrived. Billy left on his grand adventure. He kept an extra pair of unmentionables and socks with him and if required, he would wash them in the sink at the terminal. He also carried all his meals with him. Now don’t think he had his mama’s china and candelabra with him. Nor did it include the fine spread that was available at Mama Bea’s table any Sunday. Billy feasted upon such Southern delicacies as sardines, potted meat, Vienna (pronounced Vy-enna) sausages, crackers and Nabs. If you don’t know, Nabs were those peanut butter and crackers packages that you usually acquired from a vending machine. I assume the name, which was common mostly in the South, was a derivation of the name “Nabisco”, the maker and originator of such fine dining experiences. One can only imagine the aroma that wafted through the coach following the sound of tin being pulled back on those sardines. When Billy arrived at a terminal, he would get his box of clothes and supplies. His dirty clothes and whatnot would be shipped back home and he would be off to his next destination. Billy got off the bus at every destination. He would look around, the terminal that is, and get back on the bus with the satisfaction that he had visited that city. As far as I know, Billy never made it out of the terminals. When he arrived back in Shake Rag, Billy had seen the country, at least what views bus terminals had to offer. That wasn’t the only trip that Billy planned for. As I said at the outset, Billy Brown was buried next to his mama and daddy at Boone’s Chapel. He bought, paid for and had his headstone placed well in advance of his demise. On occasion, Billy would go up to the cemetery to pay his respects. While he was there, he would lie down, fully stretched out, in front of his headstone. He would say, “I just want to make sure I fit.” I suppose that is important to a man whose width and height were of equal dimensions. Needless to say, Billy Brown fit when the time came for him to board that final bus. Something tells me upon arrival to his destination that he wasn’t satisfied with just visiting the terminal. I suspect that Saint Peter’s greeting was enough enticement for him to venture on and see what grand adventure lay ahead. We would all do well to take Billy’s example of planning to heart. Christ said, “Who plans to build a tower without first counting the costs?” We need to examine our lives, measure them, and then set out to build a life that is pleasing to our Lord. We should seek to be examples to others. We should desire to be good disciples in service to our Lord and His people. Plan ahead. Also, plan to see more of the life of faith than just the terminals that you may pass through along the way. There is much more to our faith journey than what we learned as children and youth. Begin the grand adventure that we call prayer. Explore ways of praying that are old but new to you. Look beyond the terminal walls and see the world in which you live as a place that is in need of God’s saving, healing grace. Find new avenues through the regular study of Scripture and by listening to the lives of the saints who have written volumes on finding your way along the journey. If you will do these things and a few others, you may just find your own grand adventure, with or without the Continental Trailways bus.

Hell Fire

Daddy Freeman wasn’t a religious man. At least from what I could tell. It seemed we spent more Sunday mornings hunting or fishing than in the church house. I do remember him invoking God’s name a time or two though. There is the story of when the pastor came to visit. He and Mama Bea were still living in the old farm house that eventually burned to the ground. There was only one thing saved from that burning tender box. As they dragged Mama Bea out of the house she reached up and grabbed a photograph. The rest was lost. I guess that really means two things were saved. But I digress. The preacher was there on a hot summer day, probably making the rounds in Shake Rag to the backsliders of which I suspect Daddy Freeman to have been one. The old house had plank floors that covered a crawl space underneath. It was a good place to keep things cool on hot days. It this case, it was Daddy Freeman’s home brew. As the temperature rose, so did the contents of bottle upon bottle of his hidden elixir. The caps on those old bottles did what they could but eventually they had to let go under the pressure that was mounting in each bottle. First one went off and “POW” it hit those wood floors and made the sound of a rifle going off. Then there was the second. “Blam”. Then the third, and fourth and suddenly it was as if the Second Battalion had cut loose on the enemy, all from those popping bottles and rocketing caps banging up against the old wooden planks. That’s as far as this story ever got in its telling at family reunions. My guess is that Daddy Freeman was more grieved that he had lost his brew than that the preacher had been the beneficiary of the surprise. There was one other time that Daddy Freeman’s religion surfaced. It too was associated with grief. I must have been about ten or twelve years old. A piece of land had been cleared to make more pasture. I didn’t like it, the clearing that is. The small patch of woods was always occupied by a squirrel or two and at least one rabbit. That, despite my best efforts to invite them to dinner and Mama Bea’s frying pan. When the land had been cleared, the larger trees were pushed up into a giant pile to be burned. Inside the pile were old tires, fuel for the ensuing inferno. Daddy Freeman climbed over into the pile and lit a starter fire. Soon the tires were burning and the fire was spreading. The fire was so hot that the flames were blue. As we stood there, my grandfather fixed his gaze upon the blue flames and said with seemingly a bit of grief, “The fires of Hell are ten times hotter.” We stood there a while longer just watching in silence. His words have haunted me. I have never known if Daddy Freeman was contemplating his own future or pondering the destination of so many who had gone before him. Maybe it was even a word of warning to this preteen. I’ll have to admit that it stuck. Hell was very real to him. It’s not so much anymore, at least among the “educated”. We don’t think as much about a place or fire as much as about the shear agony of not being with God. I think we should be as focused on the present as much as on the future. “Hell on earth” as the expression goes is far more real to me. The abused and neglected children who pass through my home renders any speculation about Hell that one might have to nothingness. We are far from “Thy Kingdom come.” Maybe we would all do well to pause and ponder the future of those we love and don’t love. Maybe God would be just as pleased if we would spend some time pondering the fate of so many innocent sufferers of greed, war, and a host of other evils that live happily in that blue flame of unjust existence.

The Bad and the Good

Recently I had a conversation with my daughter concerning one of her friends. I had commented that the teen’s family had some issues that I was struggling to understand. The parents of the teen seemed uncaring about where the teen was or, when or how the teen might get home, if the teen ever got home. Abigail is the least judgmental person I know and in her very direct way, said to me, “You didn’t have parents with issues.” To which I responded almost reflexively, “I did.”

My mind then found its way back 40 years to 922 Franklin Street. My life was a bit “issue filled”. Before I was 14 I had been arrested twice. Should have been arrested several more times but I was sneaky. I wasn’t Al Capone and it was mostly kid stuff but still . . . My closest friends at the age of 14 would all eventually take up residency in the state penitentiary – every one of them, except for one. He committed suicide. On the weekends I could be found on the streets of my small town at almost any hour of the night.
My parents never knew. My sister who will be reading this may even be shocked, just a bit. They didn’t know because at home and school, I was the perfect kid. I got almost straight A’s, mowed the grass, hung up my clothes, was quiet, played baseball and loved apple pie. But the weekends and summers, well, fourteen year olds shouldn’t know what I knew or do some of the things I did.

That’s the bad.

Let me be clear. In my case, the issues that plagued my parents did not revolve around parenting. The lack of supervision was a symptom of other things and the fact that they really did think I was perfect. I know, hard to believe. My parents loved me and it was what sustained me during a very scary part of my life.

Then came the brown haired girl down the street asking me to go to church. I said sure. What 16 year old ever told a cute brown haired girl no? So, I went and never stopped. The church became a safe place. It was a place where Youth Sunday School teachers would drone on about Moses or Noah or some other dead guy. But that was ok because those boring youth teachers were there not because they liked teaching (obviously) but because they cared about the youth of the church. Mr. Branscome could kill the best story of the Bible, but he cared.

Then there were the youth. Mostly new faces for me but they adopted me, the only kid in the group whose parents didn’t attend. They let me go out to eat with them. They didn’t make fun of my clothes. They invited me over for cards and we shot baskets together. One night six of them lined the walls of my living room just to say hello and welcome me to church. I became one of them and it was as if I had always been.

My life changed because of that church, that Sunday School, that youth group - in Grenada, Mississippi. I went back not so long ago. I thanked them for all they had done and said, “God saved my soul, but you saved my life.” That’s what churches do. Thanks be to God for boring teachers and non-judgmental youth. Even for kids with . . . issues.

And that . . . is the good.

Belonging

Here is a great story. It didn’t happen in Shake Rag, but it could have. It is about a man who lives on a mountain. Shake Rag doesn’t have any mountains, unless you count Chalk Bluff. Chalk Bluff is just that, a bluff that is as white as Mamma Bea’s freshly bleached sheets. Back when, the young folks would ride their mules over and have bon fires and roast hot dogs. Kids are too sophisticated for that today. There’s not an app for that.

Anyway, this is a story about a man and it starts when he starts, with his parents. His parents were a couple of young people who made a bad choice in life that resulted in a pregnancy. 60+ years ago, this was a source of shame and humiliation for families. The local sheriff came and gathered up the young man, took him and the young woman to the local judge and forced them to get married. It didn’t last long, the marriage that is. It was really just to give the soon to be born son a name. The young couple divorced and went their separate ways. The father remarried and soon had children that he was very proud of but his first born remained a family secret. The “family secret” grew up, joined the army, went to jail for a period and then moved onto a mountain and lived in the woods. No house, no plumbing, no electricity, just the woods.

The mountain man knew who his father was and kept a watchful eye on his secret family. During family reunions, the mountain man would linger along the fringes of the woods watching, just watching. It sounds a bit scary and strange to us but it was hardly that. It was really more about a young man who wanted to belong. He could see his own face in the face of his dad and no doubt felt a connection that was powerful. Yet, he remained on the fringe, just watching. Never being a part.

He eventually married, had two children and built a one room shelter for his family from scraps of lumber that he picked up here and there. He made a living from harvesting ginseng from the woods and selling it. He became well known in the little community nearest him. He was known to be trustworthy, despite his oddities. He once wanted to borrow $500 to buy a car. He walked into the nearest bank, told them what he wanted and walked out with $500. No collateral, just his good reputation.

One day, one of his half sisters learned about the family secret. She pondered as to what to do. She decided it was time to meet this mountain man who was her brother. She took a drive, turned down a road that lead deep into the woods passing “No Trespassing” signs all along the way. She was a bit nervous wondering what kind of reception she would receive. She pulled up to what can only be described as a shack and got out. She was greeted by a rough looking man dressed in overalls, no shirt, a beard down to his belly button and a shotgun. But she didn’t see any of that. What she saw was the face of her dad. “Hello, my name is ….” He cut her off and said, “I know who you are.” They hugged, he invited her in. Now, she visits this brother on a regular basis. She has begun taking her daughter. They belong.
How many times have we stood on the fringes wanting to belong? How many times have we overlooked those standing outside the circle of inclusion? What a tremendous gift of grace this sister offered when she reached out and gently pulled the “family secret” into the circle of welcoming love. We can do that. We can, with a little effort and just a bit of courage, reach out and include others. Jesus did: the woman at the well, Zacheus, the thief, the rich young ruler, Mary, the adulterous woman, . . . me . . . you.

Mamma Bea might say, "Come in the house."

God says, "This son, this daughter, was lost but now is found."

Thanks be to God.

Kwerky Kid

Five years ago next month a little boy came to our house for the first time. A friend of a friend had mentioned that we might be interested in adopting. So they dropped him off for a trial run, sort of. He had all his fingers and toes. He had huge brown eyes. On the back of his hands were scars. I’m not sure he even knew they were there or that they shouldn’t be there. They just were. They spoke volumes to us though. This little boy had already travelled a long road from being abused as an infant and then passed off to a strange family for safe keeping and even now was being passed off again. He must have wondered why and for how long. Would this be another lay-over on the journey or would this house, this family, offer sanctuary from a nomadic life that began with wounds from a world of sin.

We soon discovered the little boy was, well, active. Way to active. Off the chart active. He didn’t walk through the house, he bounced, like the super ball I had as a kid. ADHD were the letters that were attached to his medical file. Drugs were in order. It had to be either Adderal for him or Prozac for us. He needed help more than we did. Being tossed from Kindergarten every other day would not be a resume builder for the first grade. ADHD kids have difficulties in many ways. They are usually developmentally behind as much as three years. They can’t focus. They are often labeled lazy because they can’t concentrate to do their work so they do nothing. And, with a brain that never rests, they can have behavior issues. In lay terms, they are trouble makers. Labels, discipline, being ignored, considered lazy and not being able to relate to peers are bound to leave scars. These are not as evident as the others but scars none the less.

The boy still displayed unusual behavior, even for an abused child with ADHD. We had every test done that could be done. Nothing. Nada. No one could tell us anything definitive. There were terms thrown around by professionals that described a developing Hannibal Lector. About then we adopted the boy knowing that his journey was getting longer and harder every day. We hoped that permanency would help. It didn’t. Tortuous melt downs. Chairs being thrown. Screams that “the music is too loud”, “it’s too cold”, “I have to eat before I can put on my socks”, constant whining, ignoring adults, reclusive behavior, repetitive sounds, intense desire to be right, correcting adults, melting down when corrected, and oh so much more. Then Jana said the right word, “Asperger’s”. He was tested and that was it. The brown eyed boy had Asperger’s Syndrome. It explained it all. We were concerned and relieved at the same time. Finally, a diagnosis. Wait. What the heck is Asperger’s? It’s a form of autism and that’s about all I know, for now. We are learning, almost daily. What we do know is that you can’t see it. It’s not a scar on a hand that explains a world gone wrong. It’s invisible. What we see are symptoms. Not everyone gets it. Recently a teacher called the boy by a derogatory epithet when what she was observing was a symptom, not a “normal” kid making bad choices. I was angry. I wanted to say, “Look at the scars.” but there aren’t any that can be seen. Not for this. I realized too that this would be part of his journey. Misunderstandings, assumptions, judgments, and labels that he is “kwerky,” if people are kind, will be his lot.

Thomas asked Jesus if he could see his scars. Jesus showed him his hands. The scars verified for Thomas that it was indeed Jesus but for me, the scars speak volumes about a world of sin. A world that is not what God intended. It is a world where tornadoes rip through towns, wars begin over greed, adults are left on the streets to live and that quirky children are teased and maligned. It is a world where children on the other end of the autism spectrum are locked away behind blank stares. It is a world where adults sometimes behave like children. It is a world . . . well, you get it. What holds it together for me is the unassailable belief that God will and does continue to work. Creation continues. Grace somehow brings humanity forward even at the almost intolerable pace of a snail. So, thanks be to God for not giving up on quirky humanity and little boys who say, “No Dad, it’s 8:31, not 8:30.”

Thanks to “Geek Palaver” for the seeds for this story.

A Wild Rose

My mom used to say that Mama Bea could grow anything. Mom thought it was the dirt she used from the barnyard. I think it was Mama Bea. Besides the huge vegetable garden, her yard was full of flowers. I don’t remember what she grew; I just know she grew a lot of it. There were some flowers that she identified as poppies to me one time. She said that they helped you sleep at night. I didn’t ask any questions. She had the elusive green thumb that seems to have disappeared from the DNA chain after her. She once dropped a nail on the ground and the following spring there was a hardware store in that very same spot. She was good.

Mama Bea enjoyed sharing her plants with others. I think she took great delight in digging up a plant, wrapping the root ball in a paper sack and sending it off to another home. The house where I grew up was surrounded by plants and flowers that had migrated from Shake Rag to Grenada. Along the back fence there was a rose bush that had come from Mama Bea’s. It must have been twenty feet long. Someone said it was a wild rose. Every spring it bloomed for about a week and then it was done.

When Dad died, I dug up a piece of the bush and took it back to Waco. I planted it in a sunny spot, watered it and waited . . . and waited . . . and waited. Nothing. Three years went by and the bush not only did not bloom, it didn’t grow, not even an inch. I guess being wild also means being stubborn. When we moved to Huntsville, I dug up the pitiful plant, threw it in a bucket, put it in the truck and planted it some three months after moving into our new home. After just a few days, it began to perk up. It grew . . . and grew . . . and grew. I think it sent runners out at about the rate of a foot a day. Then in May, like it always did in Grenada and has ever since here in Huntsville, it began to put on buds, little bitsy buds that begin with a yellowish tint and then open to white blossoms. Today, right now, there are about two hundred blossoms on the bush. They will showcase their beauty for about a week and then they will be gone until next year.

The wild rose requires a lot of work for just a week’s worth of enjoyment. I’ll cut it back at least three times during the summer and will suffer the pricks of some wicked thorns. It will never be tamed. But it is worth it, at least for me. The bush begins calling to me with the first signs of spring each year. I’ll peak out a window watching for the first of those tiny buds to appear. They are reminders. They remind me of a childhood that is long since gone, along with my parents and my grandparents. They remind me of the good and the bad of growing up at 922 Franklin Street in Grenada, MS. They remind me of my roots in Shake Rag and a farm that nourished many bodies and my soul.

“A wandering Aramean” the Hebrew grandfather begins as he recounts the story of his people. He remembers, because it is important to remember, the good and the bad, the lean times and the times of abundance, the delicate blossoms and the wicked thorns. We remember because where we came from makes us who we are and what we will become. We remember because it is important to recall God’s presence through all that life offers: the celebrations and the healing graces of pricks from life’s wicked thorns. Despite our hard work, life will always be untamed offering us a full slate of experiences. Thanks be to God for His faithfulness through all of it. Deuteronomy 26:5ff

I'll Fly Away

I have a favorite uncle on my mother’s side. Actually he’s my only uncle on my mother’s side but if he weren’t, he would be. I’ll call him “Uncle Fred”. Uncle Fred grew up at Shake Rag and is the source of many of my stories that occurred before I was even conceived, I mean thought about. He is a veteran of the Korean War and then served the state of Mississippi as a Highway Patrolman. He served faithfully for a hundred years or so, eventually becoming District Supervisor. After retiring, he had a brief stint as sheriff in his small town in north Mississippi. I always said he could have been on a recruiting poster. He is tall and has a stare that could stop most crooks in their tracks. I have a vivid memory of him pulling my mother and me over on I-55 as we made our way home from Memphis. As we stood on the side of the road chatting, my mother took her empty Coke bottle and heaved it out away from the highway. With arms folded, dark glasses, and wide-brimmed hat on, Uncle Fred stared down at her and said in a low but stern voice, “Sista, that’s a five hundred dollar fine.”

With his military and law enforcement career, it’s no wonder that folks would naturally turn to him when disaster strikes. There is one lady in particular that calls Uncle Fred even when the tiniest of clouds comes floating by. Now, Uncle Fred is a good man, a deacon of First Baptist Church and long on patience. However, Uncle Fred finally ran out of that patience and the next phone call that he got from the dear lady concerning some benign thunder cloud brought this response , “Mrs. Smith, why don’t you just put a cell phone in your pocket and when you land, call me. I’ll come get you.”

Dorothy could have used that advice when she landed in Oz. That is, if cell phones had been invented. “Auntie Em? This is Dorothy. Are you ok? That was some twister. Yes, I’m fine. The house isn’t quite the same. As a matter of fact, nothing is quite the same. There was this witch, and there are little people, and everything is black and white, and, well, I don’t know how to get home. Could you come get me?”

Or Elijah, you know, the prophet that was taken away by the whirlwind. Elijah: “Dude, I’m ridin’ this whirlwind and we just passed over Kilimanjaro. Oops, clipped a pink flamingo.” Then there’s Enoch. Who knows what happened to him? “I was there, now I’m not.”

One day, we will be here, and then not. Jesus said that He has prepared a place for us. What if we could have cell phones? “This isn’t quite what I expected, but you know, I like it. You won’t believe who I just saw. That grace thing was way bigger than I ever imagined. No, don’t be in any hurry about getting here. There’s plenty more to do where you are. Things are so clear now. Love. Peace. Grace. Tell Auntie Em not to worry. I’m home.”

Why don’t you join with me in singing or humming “I’ll Fly Away”? It seems appropriate. But, before you do, put a cell phone in your pocket. You just never know.