Goodness, Graciousness

“I was just coming to check on my friend and look what I got,” I heard him say as the van door slid shut just before we pulled away. What he got was a warm meal, some hygiene items and a blanket.

His name was Dave and I encountered him last night on my first venture out in the Uplift van to deliver meals and necessities to the homeless in Kansas City. I was subbing for a friend who does this on a regular basis.

At every stop, we found our guests to be gracious and appreciative. “Thank you so much. God bless you.” We often didn’t have what they needed. “That’s, okay,” they’d say. It wasn’t okay for me. At least half of them asked for shirts and we didn’t have any. I have a drawer full of t-shirts at home—about half of which I never wear. It’s time to go through it again.

We met some who were witty and funny. Two, at separate stops, proudly boasted they had the same waist size they had in high school. By and large they looked out for one another. One stop was across the street from some police activity. One of our guests had been over there. He pointed at the others around the van, “They tried to warn me to stay away from there, but I didn’t listen.”

And we met Dave. I don’t know where we were exactly—underneath an overpass somewhere. When we first arrived at this particular stop, we didn’t see anyone. One man came out of the darkness. We served him a plate of pasta with meat sauce and green beans. He came to the side of the van where we offered him hygiene items and other things he might need.

Then, his friend, Dave, came to the van. We served him. He chatted with his friend. He chatted with us. When we asked how he was he said, “Pretty good. I woke up on the right side of the dirt this morning.” As with everyone else, we offered things he might need. Toothpaste? Shampoo? “What I really need,” he said, “is a blessing.”

He asked if we could pray. At his urging, we joined hands and he led us in prayer. I don’t remember all the words, it rhymed and I wondered if it was memorized from childhood. One line was “Thank you for all you have given us today.” Perhaps the reason I don’t remember the rest of the words is because I was struck by that line. I am grateful for all that I have, but I don’t often take time out of my day to say thanks for it. The message at church last Sunday was essentially the less you have the more you tend to appreciate what you do have. That was the case for this man.

When I was asked to volunteer, I had no idea what to expect. In the end, I was just helping out my friend, and look what I got. Thank you, God, for all you have given me today.

I opened a can of worms. You can guess how it went from there.

So, I was having a “post the blog entry or don’t post the blog entry” debate with myself and essentially said so on Facebook as my status update. A word of advice: don’t do that unless you’re ready for several people to advise you to post it AND you’re actually prepared to post it. I was not prepared or ready on either count.

My initial hesitancy was just that it got a little more personal than I was prepared to share on the worldwide web. I made it a little less personal, but still I’m not sure I’m ready to share it. I let a friend read it and asked for her advice as to whether I should post it. She’s pretty conservative and private so I fully expected her to caution me against posting it. She didn’t. But still, I am reluctant to do so. I told her I’d think about it over the weekend. The weekend passed. I still wasn’t ready. That’s when I posted my status update.

I appreciated all the feedback I got, but now, I am even more hesitant to post it because, frankly, it’s really not all that good. I feel like there’s this expectation that it will be this moving piece. It’s not. At all. It was just me rambling, as is usually the case.

Anyway, I’m going to sit on it a while longer. Maybe I’ll post it. Maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll rewrite it entirely and share it in a new form. One thing I know is that writing it in the first place was healing in a way. Maybe that’s all it needs to be.

Going Home

Center, Missouri. Population 644 (at the 2000 census). About 100 miles northwest of St. Louis and about 20 miles southwest of Hannibal. Home.

I’ve been back home a number of times since I moved to the Kansas City area more than 18 years ago. From 2001-2008 I went back about once a month to check in on Mom and/or Dane. Those brief visits didn’t allow for much time to visit with people outside the family or to really connect with the town I called home for 18 years.

Looking for an opportunity for Dane to catch up with old friends, this past weekend I attended what my childhood friend now refers to as “the social event of the season”—Center Park Day. There is apparently some debate about how many years this event has taken place, but it’s been 59-ish years. My aunt recalls the circumstances around how it was begun. I wasn’t around then, I just remember it was a much-anticipated event for the youth of the town. (Adult views were probably more varied.) In my day, it was always held on the first Tuesday after the first Monday in August (election day). It is now held the last Saturday in July.

The Park Day of my youth included hourly cake walks and prize walks, kiddie parades, best decorated bike and trike contests, frog jumping contests, a bingo stand, the penny pitch, a dunking booth, water fights…the list goes on. At lunch time, they would randomly stop a family with out-of-state plates—presumably on vacation—at the four-way stop (yes, THE four-way stop…there is only one) and invite them to join us for lunch. They’d be ushered onto the stage and introduced and given a few gifts like a cooler and a road atlas or something and then they’d get a free meal. I always thought that would be an odd experience for anyone. Can you imagine?

Many aspects of the Park Days of my memory continue today. I watched a little girl carry a frog that was bigger than her forearm and plop him down on at the starting line of the frog jumping contest. I didn’t see the best decorated bicycle contest, but I spotted a bike adorned with streamers and wondered how it fared in the contest. The dunking booth was up and running. Dane won a German chocolate cake in the cake walk. My niece, Hannah, won a bike helmet in the prize walk. I watched from afar as youngsters fired water hoses at the barrel suspended from a line. Somewhere I have a plaque from winning the water fight in nineteen eighty-something.

This year, some of the things I remember were gone, but new things entered the mix including a newlywed game where a boy I once babysat was a contestant. There was a “Center’s Got Talent” competition and a “Minute to Win It” game based on a TV show. This suggests that while Park Day is rooted in tradition it can evolve with the times.

The absolute best thing about Park Day, though, is the people you see. I saw former classmates (from grade school through high school) Wendy, Beverly and Joni. I spotted Wendy with her son and asked, “Is this your little one?” She replied, “Yes,” and then she whispered, “He’s a mean little shit.” It warmed my heart to know she hasn’t changed. Beverly was there with her son selling cold water to raise money for a field trip (or something). Joni, who can proudly claim to have never missed a Park Day in 40 years, was there with her teenage daughter and they were looking forward to entering the look-alike contest. (I didn’t see it and I don’t know who their competition was, but they should have had a good shot at winning.)

I saw former Sunday school teachers, and softball coaches and a history teacher and lunch line ladies. I saw former softball teammates, Amber and Dawn. I saw parents of former classmates and friends—Joann and Charles; Mac and Leona; Bert; Judy; and Nancy. I ran into people who I used to see regularly on Sunday mornings at Olivet Christian Church—Ron and Lisa and Jan. All of these people helped shape my life in some way.

I tend to think of Kansas City (or Overland Park or whatever) as home now, but it’s no Center. I think the thing I like most about where I work and where I go to church (both of which have about the same number of members/employees as Center has residents) is the sense of community I feel at each of those places. It’s the sense of community that I first experienced in that little town that is but a speck on the map in northeast Missouri.

He was a good man...

I went to a visitation tonight for a man I've known about 8-9 years. Don, who was the father/father-in-law of friends of mine, died just 15 days shy of his 90th birthday and 2 months shy of celebrating his 70th wedding anniversary with his wife, Lu. He liked people. Pretty much anybody. He'd lend a helping hand to anyone who needed it. He touched a lot of people's lives in his time on this planet, and mine was one of them.

I've shared a number of Easter and Christmas dinners with him over the last several years. My love life (or lack thereof) seemed to be a concern of his. He couldn't understand how I could possibly be single. He used to tell me, "You're a good woman. Any man would be lucky to have you." I'd respond by saying, "Well, tell that to any man." I think he thought I meant that as I once overheard him doing so.

On one occasion, he told me about one man in particular that was just perfect for me. Don informed me that "Al" (name changed to protect the innocent) was a good man and he had a nice house and all kinds of nice qualities. Sounded good. Except he lived in a small town in Nebraska about 5 hours away where Don and Lu were living at the time. Don didn't seem to think the distance should be an issue. I did.

Six or seven years ago, after they had visited over the holiday one year, I went with my friend to drive them back home to Nebraska. Don was hopeful that it would work out that I could meet Al during my visit. On the way there, we stopped at a Cracker Barrel for lunch where I continued to hear about the virtues of Al and how we should get together. Lu piped up and said, "Al? He's too old for her." Don said, "Well, he is not. He's not that old." Lu responded, "Well, he collects social security." I guess 60-something is still pretty young if you're 80-something, but as a 30-something (at the time), I was thinking that might be a little too old for me. Add to that the distance and it just was not meant to be. But, I got a good laugh out of it all. At least he had his eye out for me.

Don's teenage granddaughter wrote and read a beautiful tribute to him tonight. It was also a tribute to Lu and their nearly 70 years of marriage. Don's love for Lu was always apparent whether they were bickering or smiling at each other. He thought the world of her. While I found his quest to find a man for me amusing, I think in the end he just wanted everyone to have a little piece of what he had with Lu.

He was a good man and he will be remembered fondly by many.

Uncle Bud

The Fourth of July serves as a reminder to me of those who fought for our independence and those who subsequently fought for this country. Thus, it seems like an appropriate time to tell you about my Uncle Bud. I never knew him, so the details are sketchy at best. I'm sure my brother who remembers more stories than I do and my aunt will fill in some of the details for me.

He was born February 8, 1925 in rural northeast Missouri. He died March 2, 1945 on Iwo Jima. I don't know a whole lot about what happened in between. I know he was the lone son and second oldest child of my grandparents in a family of four sisters. I know he was a farm boy. I hear he had a sense of humor. His full name was Edwin Earl Hickerson. I don't know the exact story about how the nickname "Bud" came about, but I think it had to do with one of his sister's not being able to say his name.

I know he, like me, liked the St. Louis Cardinals. My mother used to tell me that Dizzy Dean was his favorite player. My aunt has a different recollection of who his favorite player was. My assumption is maybe he had different favorite players at different stages of his life. Whatever the case, it's interesting to me how something like baseball can connect generations even if they never met each other. When I visit Busch Stadium and see Dizzy's name, I think of Uncle Bud.

I don't know much about his service to the country. I know that before he went to Iwo Jima, he was at Camp Pendleton. I don't know where else he might have served. Just a couple of years ago my brother, Mark, discovered via an online search that Uncle Bud was mentioned in a book called "Immortal Images" which was about the flag raising on Iwo Jima. We learned that he, along with four Marines, volunteered for a dangerous mission to scale Mt. Suribachi on February 22 while it was still under enemy control. These five men have the distinction of being the first patrol to scale Mt. Suribachi. My uncle survived that mission, but was killed eight days later on the island.

His death had a huge impact on his family, as you would expect. Certainly when his name came up over the years, he was remembered with fondness, but the sadness also seemed close to the surface.

My mom worked at the post office for years and I often would ride my bike with her in the evening to the PO to take down the flag that flew in front of the building. It was important that it come down every evening because the flag was not supposed to be flown at night unless it was illuminated. This one wasn't. It also had to come down at even a hint of rain because it's not supposed to get wet (unless it is made of weather-resistant material, which most are now.) She had the utmost respect for that flag and treated it accordingly. As I think about that, it occurs to me that the flag was essentially all that she had left Uncle Bud. The respect she showed to that flag seemed to be an extension of the respect and pride she had in her big brother.

That's about all I know, or think I know. If I had a time machine, I'd travel back to meet Uncle Bud and learn more about what he was like. Maybe talk a little baseball or something.

Road Trip!

I recently spent a week with 27 teenagers (and 4 other adults) on a mission trip to Denver--by choice, even. It was a great experience. There were times when my patience was tested, as you might expect under the circumstances, but it was good. In addition to getting to know the kids a little better, I got to meet my friend Nora in person for the first time. (Maybe I'll explain that in a separate blog entry.) She joined us for dinner one evening at the church where we stayed.

On this trip we volunteered at a center for abused and neglected children, we cleaned and boxed food at a food pantry, we cleaned at Ronald McDonald House, we weeded at an urban garden, and we sorted books for a thrift store. In the evenings, the kids prepared meals for the group and we participated in worship together. Friday was our fun day and we got to go whitewater rafting, which was fabulous even though the water was 38 degrees.

I learned some things about the kids throughout the week. One: During worship I was struck by how insightful and thoughtful the kids were about what they experienced during the week. Two: When there was a job to do, they did it. I was particularly impressed by how they labored in the hot sun at the urban garden. Three: They're caring and compassionate people. Some of them may display a layer of orneriness on top, but the care and compassion is just under the surface. Four: They're funny. I love a good sense of humor.

I also learned a few things about myself. One: I was not made to sleep on sofas or drive up a mountain road. Two: I am perceived as "cool" by at least a smattering of the teen population. (By "smattering" I mean one or two teens.) Three: I'm 40. (OK, I already knew that, but this trip was the first time that 40 felt "old" to me.) Four: I have a lot to learn and there is a lot to be learned from the younger generation.

It was a long week and at the end of it all I felt like I needed a vacation after my vacation, but I'd do it again if the circumstances allowed.

Friends

Tyrone was a boy from a neighboring town in our school district. He went to elementary school in our town because that’s where the special education program was conducted. Dane was also in that program, I think primarily because he needed someone to write out his homework answers. This was long before computers were common in schools.

Tyrone was one of only a few black students. Dane was the only student in a wheelchair. That’s irrelevant to the story except I’ve sometimes wondered if being “different” brought them together or if it was just the way it was supposed to be. Whatever the case, from my vantage point, Tyrone was a helpful soul and I would often see him pushing Dane through the school. It was an old building with stairs and no elevator. Tyrone was usually the one helping get Dane up and down those stairs. Tyrone made Dane laugh. Dane made Tyrone laugh. They were buds.

I don’t know if they remained as close through junior high and high school but they continued to be friendly. Tyrone played sports. Dane went to most of the games and kept stats (unofficially, in his own head, he wasn’t a statistician). Their lives were different.

When I was a freshman in high school and Tyrone and Dane were juniors, I played basketball as did Tyrone. The practice schedule alternated such that one week the girls would practice early followed by the boys practice and the next week it would switch. This particular day, the girls had practiced early and as was usually the case when that happened, I was waiting in the cafeteria for Mom’s taxi service while the boys practiced.

I sat there doing my homework when all of a sudden one of the players burst out of the gym and asked, “Where’s Coach Mac?” Coach Mac was the JV girls basketball coach and was often called on to help with medical issues—perhaps taping an ankle or evaluating an injured knee. I knew from the look of panic on this boy’s face that this wasn’t an ankle or knee injury. I pointed toward the teacher’s lounge. He sped off in that direction.

I wanted to peek in the gym and see what was going on. But I didn’t want to. Coach Mac entered the scene. An ambulance was called. Word came from inside the gym that Tyrone had collapsed on the basketball court. He didn’t survive.

It goes without saying that his life was too short. I wish I had the foresight to have told him how great I thought he was for the kindnesses he extended to my brother. I guess at 14 you just don’t think about that. Even as adults, we don't do it often enough. None of us knows how much time we have to wander this planet, but we can only hope to touch at least one person’s life in a meaningful way. Tyrone did.