Here's to Clyde and Dave

      My best friend’s father died last week.

      The text was short and stunning. “Clyde passed away unexpectedly this morning.” The words were so difficult to wrap my head around. “What? Clyde? Not Clyde. C’mon.”

      One minute, a 75-year-old man is walking through retirement, all his kids and grandchildren thriving. Then in the span of a few hours, he’s gone. So swift, so harsh.

      Clyde’s three kids range from ages 48 to 51. Whenever the late 40s or early 50s are reached, many people begin to contemplate the loss of parents if it hasn’t happened already. At the age of 58, I already have lost both parents: my mom when I was 22, my dad when I was 56. And my first wife died when I was 39. So loss? Yes I have experience, but warning signs were there for all three of those deaths. Excruciating losses? Sure. Unexpected? No.

      My best friend is Dave. And like his father, he has forged a career in newspapers. That’s how we met, in the newsroom of a daily paper here in Upstate South Carolina. At first we didn’t really know each other. But as the years passed and our paths began to cross more, we formed a friendship. It was made out of what many friendships are: common backgrounds, interests, respect and values. But it also consists of iron, titanium, graphite, plastic, wood, grass, dirt, sand, rubber, nylon and leather. In a word, golf. We have played countless rounds together, and it was on a golf course that I met Clyde.

      Actually, Clyde wasn’t his real name. His real name was Dave. He got his nickname through a column, “Coffee with Clyde,” he wrote for a newspaper in eastern Pennsylvania each Sunday morning for more than 20 years.

      “This is my dad, Clyde,” David said to me with more than a little pride several years ago.

      “Nice to meet you, Clyde,” I said with a firm handshake. “That’s an interesting first name. You don’t hear it much.”

      “Well, actually, that’s not my real first name.”

      “Then why does Dave call you Clyde?” I asked as his son chuckled.

      I then got the explanation of the name Clyde, an alter ego created for the purpose of the column. As I heard the tale, there was a twinkle in both sets of Dave eyes.

      I played several rounds of golf with Clyde and Dave, always a pleasure and always lots of stories … and a few beers (fittingly, I got the text about Clyde’s passing while I was … on a golf course).

      What I sensed between Clyde and Dave was a long-time respect between father and son, one that went beyond the bonds of family and into the commonality of shared life pursuits in newspapers. A newspaper career can be a tough, sometimes lonely existence with its own special set of disappointments and rewards. It also has changed dramatically in the past 10 years, with opportunities shrinking along with the reader base.

      Through it all, Clyde was Dave’s touchstone. Clyde was the one he bounced ideas off of; Clyde was the one with sage advice; Clyde was the one Dave could count on; Clyde was dad. Now, half of that relationship has evolved into a divine realm. The other half remains here, still needing the emotional and spiritual nourishment provided by the stumpy, bald, cherub-faced Irishman.

      My best friend has a tough road to hoe through mourning and grief. It will come at him in waves, sometimes unexpectedly, sometimes predictably … but come it will. Clyde will be in a silent role now, but Dave can draw on memories and replenish himself with the knowledge that Clyde looks on with a twinkle in his heavenly eyes and a smile of approval.

      Here’s to Clyde and Dave.

Of heat, humidity and cornhole!

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                                          Players and caddies play cornhole during the rain delay     

      On a day better suited for sipping mint juleps, Tuesday’s action at the United States Golf Association’s Junior Amateur in Bluffton, S.C., was not for the faint of heart. 

      Relief was provided by Mother Nature, but not the kind the field of 156 golfers craved. They would’ve preferred lower temperatures and cooling breezes in place of the temperatures in the high 90s with unreal humidity. What they got was a batch of rumbling thunderstorms that halted play for nearly five hours.

      That weather, typical for this area of the country at this time of year, threw a monkey wrench into the plans of the tournament poobahs. About 70 or so players have to return to the course first thing Wednesday morning to complete their 36-hole qualifying round. After that, the field will be trimmed to the low 64 scores and match play will commence. The players who finished their second round before the weather hit hold a big advantage over those who must return at first light.

      I was caught in the middle of the weather delay since I was a walking scorer in the afternoon wave. The tournament had set up evacuation “centers” around the course in the form of Colleton River homeowners opening their houses in case bad weather hit. Our first delay lasted about an hour, and we spent it in the garage of one of the mansions on Inverness Drive. The second delay was more than twice as long. The heart-of-gold owners allowed all of us to enter their house to ride out a vicious thunderstorm.

      Leave it to teenagers to make the best of a bad situation. At the start of the second delay, a long-lasting game of “cornhole” in the garage between some of the players and the caddies broke out (in cornhole, you toss a bean bag onto a wooden platform with a hole: the object is to get the beanbag through the hole).

      Other “stranded” folks checked their smart phones, watched TV, chatted, and everyone wondered when, or if, play would resume. It eventually did.

“Radar” had some trouble

      My player, Radar, had a decent chance at claiming one of the 64 match play spots. Alas, a balky putter sent him home early. He hit plenty of fairways and greens but he couldn’t buy a putt. No worries though. The feat of actually getting into the field is remarkable. By making it, a golfer is among the best 156 junior amateur players in the world. Hold your head high, Radar. The future is bright indeed.

A game of survival

      The first day of the U.S. Junior Amateur at Colleton River Plantation started early for me.  I was out among the first wave of players, heading to the first tee box at about 7:50 for an 8 a.m. starting time.

      Like all of the walking scorers, we had to go through a quick training session with pads being used for real-time scoring. Unlike the instructions last week, each of the walking scorers had to keep track of the shots of each player in the group. A tally system was used on the score sheet, then we entered the scores into the pads. Simple stuff really, easily negotiated and no problem.

     The real problem was the heat. It’s one thing to do errands in high 90 temperatures, it’s another thing to spend five hours in the suffocating heat and humidity of the Lowcountry of South Carolina. The first seven holes of the Dye course provides a decent amount of shade, especially in the morning. But as the sun climbs and as players make their way to 8, 9 and the back nine, the shade gets scarce. Players, officials and spectators have to rely on survival instincts: economy of movement and tons of hydration. Alternating between water and Gatorade/Powerade works best.

      My group included players from Iowa, Texas and Virginia. A major point of emphasis for the USGA has been pace of play. At one point, our group received a warning then was put on the clock. Eventually, it got hashed out in the scoring tent, but the young amateurs need to learn to quicken their pace, especially in big events like this when there are so many players (156).

     My player, “Radar” I’m calling him, got off to a fast start, but started stumbling a bit as soon as I showed up after lunch and cooling down. He made an ugly bogey on a par 5, then his mother looked at me with a nice smile and said, “Maybe you should go.” Hey, I’m all about the mojo so I left. Radar shot even on the front, but 4-over on the back when the wind kicked up late in the day.

      Good for Radar that he begins in the second group of the morning off the 10^th tee. He’s likely to face little wind and cooler temperatures on the back and that can only help. One of the rules officials told me that probably 6 or 7-over for the 2 rounds will secure a spot in the field of 64. I hope he’s right.

Junior Amateur will have its challenges

      When the players descend Monday on Colleton River Plantation’s Pete Dye course for the start of U.S. Junior Amateur, they will be confronted with a layout that has a split personality. 

      The first eight holes are classic “parkland” style, holes weaving between pine and magnolia trees and oaks draped with Spanish moss and usually bordered on one side by beautiful homes. That translates to trouble for those who are not accurate off the tee, because there is out of bounds on seven of the first eight holes. There also are mounds sprinkled around the course, and those can tax players who cannot think creatively about the next shot. Mr. Dye also put in many bunkers, a few of which are only one stride across.

      That’s the first eight holes.

      But starting on the ninth the players switch to a links-style course, hard by Port Royal Sound and subject to the winds coming off the sound and the nearby Atlantic Ocean. And the ninth hole can smack you in the face. I was playing it back in April and was walking from the 8^th green to the 9^th tee. As I came up to the tee box, I noticed the white tees and the blue tees, but I didn’t see the championship tees. “Where are they?” I thought. I looked to the right, back toward the woods and saw a platform about 15 above the ground. I realized that it was the back tee … nearly 90 yards away from the blues. If the players have to hit into a head wind (more likely in the afternoon than the morning), that 481-yard, par-4 can turn into a monster.

      The longer hitters may be able to negotiate it, but with mounding down the right, and whispy rough to the left, an errant tee shot could put players in a tough situation.

      Holes 10 through 15 are next to Port Royal sound and its marshes. Holes 16 through 18 are still links style, but they wander back toward some of the grand houses. The par 4, dogleg left 18^th is all someone could want at 491 yards. In the afternoon, players may be facing a headwind with their second shot.

      In all, the course stretches 7,365 yards if the United States Golf Association decides to put all the tees back. Normally, however, the USGA will vary the length of holes round-to-round. One day, you may play the 18^th at its full, beastly length. The next, it may be a 440-yard setup.

      At any rate, my day starts early Monday. I have to be at the course by 7:10 with my shift as a walking scorer starting at 8. After my shift, I turn right around and accompany the No. 1 player on my high school team in his qualifying round. He starts on No. 10 around 1 p.m. I’ll refer to my player as “Radar” during the week, since he likes to stay under the radar preferring anonymity or the closest thing to it.

      The forecast Monday calls for sunny skies with a high of 92. The real feel, however, is supposed to be 109 thanks to the usual Lowcountry humidity. My strategy, and everyone else’s, should be hydrate, hydrate and hydrate some more. Water, Gatorade and/or Powerade will be my close friends.

      I can’t believe the tournament is finally here.

The one about climate change

      The debate on climate change is fascinating. On the one hand, there are scientists (whose job is to conduct research, collect data, study the environment and make learned conclusions) saying that the reason for the warming climate is humankind and the burning of fossil fuels.

      On another hand, there are the deniers who say the earth isn’t getting warmer. Tish, tosh, it’s all a baked-up scheme. These “lefty” scientists only have an agenda so keep burning your gasoline, coal, whatever, say the climate deniers.

      There isn’t any doubt that the earth is warming. Take a look at the melting polar ice caps and honestly tell me temperatures haven’t risen in the past 50 years.

      But to claim that humankind is the ONLY reason that this is happening, I believe, is an incomplete answer. No one can say for certain what ALL the reasons are. I hear precious little talk that this could be part of a natural shift in the earth’s climate. Climate data collection is, geologically speaking, a recent occurrence. The earth is about four billion years old, so we do not know all the facts of how long climate changes take.

      So it comes down to responsibility. And one of the responsibilities all of us have is to be wise stewards of the earth and its resources. It is a sacred responsibility to care for God’s creation. As it is written in 1 Peter 4:8-9: “⁸ Above all, maintain constant love for one another, for love covers a multitude of sins. ⁹ Be hospitable to one another without complaining. ¹⁰ Like good stewards of the manifold grace of God, serve one another with whatever gift each of you has received.”

      One of the greatest gifts is this precious planet. So when I say we don’t know for certain what all the reasons are for global warming, don’t misunderstand me.

      Should we start cherishing the oceans instead of using them as a sewer/garbage dump? Yes.

      Should we continue to improve recycling and reusable energy sources? Of course.

      Should we keep searching for more alternatives to fossil fuels and reduce our greenhouse gas emissions? Absolutely.

      Should we invest more in solar power and wind power as two pieces of the energy puzzle? Certainly.

      By the year 2020, the world’s population will have tripled in 70 years, so should there be conversations about over population and its ramifications? A big thumbs up.

      Is it possible to find solutions that are ecologically and economically sound? No doubt.

      John F. Kennedy believed that difficult choices must be made, but he also had an unbounded belief in the human spirit and in our collective ingenuity. He once said, “With a good conscience our only sure reward, with history the final judge of our deeds, let us go forth to lead the land we love asking His blessing and His help, but knowing that here on earth God's work must truly be our own.”

      I firmly believe that we must take better care of God’s gifts – God’s grace – to us. It is our sacred duty not just to our Creator, but to each other and future generations.

Slaves without knowing it

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-->       The New Testament gives us many clues on how to conduct our lives. But the one passage that seems to be all-encompassing is Paul’s letter to the Colossians, chapter 3, verse 12. “Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience.”
      Those virtues seem in precious short supply here in the second decade of the 21^st century. I often wonder why. Our culture has taken such a path that those five qualities are almost viewed upon as weaknesses, not strengths. Part of the reason is the proliferation of the media, institutional and social. Reasoned discourse, honest discussion, compromise … those seem to be so foreign to us here in the age of 24-hour news channels, the Internet and Twitter.
      But, of course, media is not the sole reason. As Shakespeare wrote, “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.” We have become slaves to our smartphones, computers and TVs. We have been seduced by immediacy and technology, but it’s only the latest example of we sheep being led astray. Speaking for myself, it is very easy to get lost in the world of technology. It’s like a moth to a flame: we know it can burn us, but it’s difficult to resist the glittering light. We don’t realize that it’s a false light, and that it can lead us down dark paths.
      Remember Paul’s first letter to the church in Corinth.

      “¹Now about the gifts of the Spirit, brothers and sisters, I do not want you to be uninformed. ² You know that when you were pagans, somehow or other you were influenced and led astray to mute idols.”

I Corinthians 12:1-3

      This is not to say that all media is bad. Quite the contrary: The Internet has been a wonderful tool for many people: doctors, students, writers and many others who are curious and wish to expand their knowledge. I actually used the Internet in writing this  (thank you, biblegateway.com). Our phones let us connect to family and friends in ways that were impossible less than a generation ago.

      But when we let those tools be our only avenue to connect with other people, that’s when relationships can fray. We lose that sense of community that promotes empathy, a key component of becoming more compassionate, kind, humble, gentle and patient. In short, being a slave to technology can quickly separate us from the loving arms of our families and God.

The hate of late

      I just don’t get hate. There seems to be so much of it lately. The Web can be a big avenue for that, but it’s only one way hate is delivered. Why does hate even get created?

      Hate is a “taker,” to use in-vogue vernacular. Like a petulant child, hate demands more and more. The more you feed it, the bigger it gets. And it destroys all in its path.

      The counter balance is love. Love shares with hate the need to be fed, but it is a constructive act. Love in its true form does not destroy, it blossoms, it spreads, it grows out of the heart.

      Here’s what Martin Luther King Jr. said so eloquently. “.. Love has within it a redemptive power. And there is a power there that eventually transforms individuals. Just keep being friendly to that person. Just keep loving them, and they can’t stand it too long. Oh, they react in many ways in the beginning. They react with guilt feelings, and sometimes they’ll hate you a little more at that transition period, but just keep loving them. And by the power of your love they will break down under the load. That’s love, you see. It is redemptive, and this is why Jesus says love. There’s something about love that builds up and is creative. There is something about hate that tears down and is destructive. So love your enemies.”

      For me, I hope that everyone knows the power and value of love. Let’s relegate the hate to where it belongs: a rare flash of anger, a darker side of humanity that love will always overcome.

Bright light

      Did you catch that light? It was stunning to see; so sudden in its appearance, so illuminating in its brightness.

      That light was so refreshing since media in this second decade of the 21st century can be so dark, so depressing, so mind-numbingly inane. The 24-hour news channels (from MSNBC all the way to Fox News, the other end of the spectrum) are brimming with such drivel: people espousing one side of an issue, another touting the other side and an anchor who eggs both on into a screaming match. I cannot watch.

      And from all sides, it’s not enough to be so-called “correct” about an issue. You also have to humiliate and destroy the opposing side. What’s absent is civility, respect for other opinions and, most importantly, the ability to see from another point of view.

      What’s also missing in our world is forgiveness. Often, the first thought when we have been wronged is to lash out, to seek that pound of flesh. It’s one of the most human of reactions. It’s usually born of shock, grief or anger. It’s a selfish notion, that idea of revenge.

      But two weeks ago, in the aftermath of the unspeakable horror at Emmanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, a flash of light illumined the dark. We saw families, who had had loved ones murdered as they welcomed a stranger into their midst, utter the rarest of words: “I forgive you.”

      What? You forgive him? You forgive someone who ended nine lives in a matter of minutes? You forgive someone who entered a house of worship with the intent to violate God’s most important law? Really? Forgive?

      But by forgiving, those families disarmed the attacker and the message of fear and distrust that he carried. They took that weapon of anger and turned into a message of hope and love.

      Those families were following God’s message to us through Christ. If the entire New Testament could be boiled down to one word, that word could be “forgiveness.” Jesus forgave those who nailed him to the cross. He set the standard that Christians follow. Those families heard that example and, through their grief, lived that example.

      As it’s written in Acts 26:18 “to open their eyes so that they may turn from darkness to light and from the power of Satan to God, so that they may receive forgiveness of sins and a place among those who are sanctified by faith in me.”

      Did you catch that light? It was stunning to see; so sudden in its appearance, so illuminating in its brightness.

Best love

It was 14 years ago that, with two words, I did the smartest thing I’ve ever done in my life: I said, “I do” to my wife, Kathy.

The memories of that mild December day are fresh: the overcast skies; the beautiful church; my daughter all decked out in a navy-blue velvet dress; the humorous homily by our minister.

Mostly what I remember, though, is how my wife took my breath away. I saw her in that gorgeous white gown coming down the aisle with her dad escorting her. Life’s path to that point for me, a 42-year-old widow with a nine-year old daughter, was a winding one. Everyone’s path through life meanders, but what counts is how you handle the curves.

When I saw my wife coming toward me at the altar, I was awestruck by the grace of God. Why in the world was I given a second chance at happiness? The first one was incredible, but short-lived. My breath was taken away as I saw Kathy that Dec. 19, but there also was an innate calmness, a confidence, that we were meant to be together.

Since then, well, let’s just say my wife still takes my breath away. Even when her professional world is closing in on her – patients, paperwork, etc. – she still can smile, laugh and make our family whole and complete. I don’t know why I have been blessed with such an incredible woman in my life, but I am eternally grateful that God saw fit to bestow his grace upon my soul.

July 19

I remember the day most vividly when it’s hot, like it is now. The heat of that summer, 1986, was different than other summers because of the lack of humidity. Where now you can work up a healthy sweat in a matter of seconds, back 26 summers ago there seemed to be no moisture in the air here in Upstate South Carolina. It hadn’t rained for more than a month as dawn broke on July 19, 1986.

I didn’t have too many cares that morning, other than the one to make sure I got to the church on time because July 19, 1986 was the day I got married to Elaine Russell.

I look back on that day now fondly because of the funny things that happened that day and the day before and the joy of saying “I do” with a woman who was so loving and so sweet and so genuine.

I remember worrying about my friends from the Northeast who had never experienced that kind of heat for any length of time.

I remember my brother, the wine expert, asking the waiter at the rehearsal dinner to put some ice in his wine. In a hushed tone, the waiter said, “Sir we usually serve this wine at room temperature.” My brother’s reply? “Yeah, but the room temperature is 85!”

I remember playing golf the day of the rehearsal dinner when the temperature was 103. The only thing that was green on that course was the putting surfaces, the Bermuda grass in the fairways having died of thirst a few weeks before.

I remember sitting in the pastor’s office waiting for the ceremony to begin, and the pastor saying, “Well, it’s 1:54, almost time.” My brother, my best man, jokingly said, “Yeah, let’s synchronize our watches.” With a stone face, the pastor said, “My wife and I already have.”

I remember my sister-in-law’s husband checking with the wedding director, the pastor’s wife, to see if it was time to light the candles. She looked at her watch and said, “No, it’s not time.” He turns, walks the few steps back to his post as an usher, only to see the pastor’s wife immediately motion him back over and say, “Steve, it’s time to light the candles.”

I remember it was so hot that instead of entering the sanctuary from the customary right side, the pastor, my brother and I entered from his office off to the left because we would’ve had to go outside in 106 degree heat wearing  cutaway tuxes.

I remember both Elaine and I getting a case of the giggles as we recited the vows. I remember really concentrating and trying not to laugh. As soon as the pastor said, “I now pronounce you man and wife.” I turned with my wife on my arm, but noticed a kind of pregnant pause behind me. Then the recessional played and all seemed OK. The only thing I forgot to do was … kiss my new wife!

I remember my 3-year-old nephew coming up and telling me, in a very concerned and serious tone, “Uncle Mark, somebody put rice in your car.” I knelt down and told him it was OK, they were supposed to do that.

I remember that as friends and family were getting ready to “decorate” our car, one of the ushers asked if anybody had any lipstick. Elaine’s best friend then opened her purse, produced a cosmetic counter-amount of the stuff and said, “What shade do you need?”

Those are good memories, ones that I will take with me the rest of my days.

But one memory, a melancholy one, is the knowledge that the marriage was destined to last only 10 years, 3 months and 11 days because the loving and  genuine and sweet woman left this life the day before Halloween 1996.

Weep not. My heart is truly filled with gratitude to God for the time we had. It was a good time. It was July 19, 1986, and I remember it like it was yesterday.

A couple of irregular Joes

As I get ready to celebrate my 55^th Christmas, I’m drawn to the story about Joseph, Jesus’ earthly father. Or, more precisely, I’m drawn to the lack of stories about him. Hardly anything is known about this man, a simple carpenter and laborer in first century Nazareth.

There was a movie released a few years ago, “The Nativity Story” which attempted to paint a fuller picture of Joseph, a man betrothed to another man’s young daughter, Mary. While the Biblical accuracy, like nearly every movie Hollywood has made based on Scripture, is questionable, the humanity of Joseph – his shock at learning Mary was pregnant, his revelation of the truth from the angel and his ultimate devotion to Mary and soon-to-be born son – comes shining through. This celluloid Joseph comes across as resilient, making the best of his circumstances and maintaining a strong faith in God.

I also am reminded of another “Joe,” not very well known by his family when he was younger but who had a life-altering experience in middle age. He’s well into his senior years now, ready to celebrate his 87^th birthday three days before Christmas. Joe has been tested by circumstances beyond his control: the death of his mother, father, brothers, first wife and a daughter-in-law. Joe’s mid-life decision to trust and worship God was not an easy one. Often, he struggled to see the light of the world. But he persevered and, with help, became a better person, Christian, husband and father.

The cobwebs of vascular dementia now tie his mind, but enough of who Joe is and how far he has come are evident for all. When I visit him, I think of how our roles have essentially reversed: I, along with my brother and sisters, am now the parent and he is the child. But, like that other “Joe” of 2,000 years ago, Dad’s faith in God is resilient. The candle may grow short, but the light shines before everyone. Let us praise our fathers here, and our Father in heaven.

Funny Grandpa Joe

My son started to laugh at the gas station. That’s kind of an odd place to get a case of the giggles, but there the 10-year-old was in the backseat of the minivan having a hard time containing himself. It started before I stopped at that pump to fill up the car, it continued when he got out to clean the windshields, and it didn’t stop for another five minutes.

“What are you laughing at?” I asked with a smile.

“Oh, nothing,” he said.

“He’s got a case of the sillies,” said my 85-year-old father.

“Boy, you got that right,” I said.

Robby and I had arrived in Nashville to visit Dad who has been battling aging issues since November. School starts in another week or so, and it was my turn to visit Dad. So Robby and I made the 350-mile trip to see him and Momma.

As usual, one of the first subjects after we greeted one another was “What’s for dinner?” The tradition, if a nine-month habit can be called a tradition, was to take Dad out for lunch and dinner each day. It was great for him to get out of the assisted living facility in Nashville, but it wreaks havoc on our waistlines.

“I got a taste for seafood,” Dad said. So the Red Lobster in suburban Cool Springs was our destination. Dad went for the whole hog, in this case lobster, Robby had one of the combo plates, and I settled for salmon.

It was after dinner that we pulled into the gas station. I stopped the car, looked out the window and realized I had picked the diesel pump. “Whoops. That’s diesel,” I said. “Damn diesel,” Dad said.

When you’re 85 and you have some mild vascular dementia, your leash is pretty long. You can say and do things and get away with them that other people cannot. Such was the case with the “Damn diesel” comment.

But 10-year-old boys senses of humor are tickled by bodily functions and swear words. Robby just lost it when Dad said, “Damn diesel.”

Robby revealed this to me the next day. “Grandpa is just so funny,” Robby said.

That “bond” only strengthened in the coming days. My son is not exactly noted for his work ethic, just like almost every other 10-year-old American boy. But a change came over him when he was around “Grandpa Joe” as he calls Dad.

He didn’t have to be told to get Grandpa Joe’s walker. Robby just got it.

He didn’t have to be asked to help his Grandpa Joe out of the car. Robby was there putting his little hand in the middle of a massive back to get Grandpa Joe going.

He didn’t have to be told to escort Grandad up to his room. Robby just did it.

“I like helping Grandpa,” Robby said.

“I like seeing you help him, son,” I replied.

“He really is a good boy. He is so helpful,” Grandpa Joe said.

A bond between a grandfather and grandchild is one of the most precious things we witness in our lives. I had that a little bit with my maternal grandfather, but these moments I get to cherish between “Grandpa Joe” and Robby remind me of what I missed … and what someday I will witness again, maybe with my own grandson.

Jane Wall's horn

The horn always sounded at the same times every weekday. At 8 a.m. and 3 p.m., the white passenger van would pull up across the street in front of Bill and Jane’s house and the driver would give a long blast on the horn.

After the horn sounded in the morning, the front door to Bill and Jane’s house would open and out would come Jane pushing her adult, wheelchair-bound daughter, Jane Wall, out to the street. The driver would carefully place Jane Wall in her wheelchair onto the motorized lift, and Jane would say goodbye, tenderly caressing Jane Wall’s face or shoulders. When the horn sounded in the afternoon, Jane – eternally smiling – would come out to welcome Jane Wall from a day at a center for physically and mentally disabled people.

Jane and Bill’s daughter contracted Reye’s Syndrome 30 years ago when she was about 3. A smiling, healthy and energetic child, Jane Wall’s condition left her with immense physical and mental disabilities. The easy way out would’ve been to simply institutionalize Jane Wall, and then Bill and Jane could sink their energy into raising their son.

But Jane and Bill are not cut from that cloth; there’s nothing in their makeup that would allow them to “give up” in such a fashion. I talked to Jane about that a number of years ago, and Jane simply replied, “Well, she was our baby. We couldn’t do that to her.”

So Bill and Jane raised Jane Wall with as much love, devotion and care as anyone. It was awe-inspiring when they would bring her to neighborhood parties, and everyone would be making a fuss over the brown-haired woman with the crooked smile. Jane Wall never said a word, simply looking at people and smiling. On occasion, she would laugh or show her displeasure, but she spent every night in her parents’ house, safe and secure from a world that too often seems cold and cruel.

Last week, Jane Wall contracted pneumonia. Delicate as a rare flower, Jane Wall put up a brave struggle for survival, but in the end she was called to a higher purpose. She departed Monday morning, surrounded by the family who loved her so much. What Jane and Bill may not know is how much of an inspiration they are to friends and neighbors; how their simple grace under pressure for three decades inspired generations fortunate enough to know them and love them.

Mornings and afternoons still will come each day in our neighborhood, but the missing sound of a horn from a white passenger van will signal a void in our lives. But if you open your heart and listen closely, you can hear the clarion call of heavenly horns heralding the arrival of Jane Wall.

Happy Valentine's Day, Kathy, Part 2

Last time, I wrote about the wonderful qualities of my wife, Kathy. Her joy of life and tenderness of spirit has brightened the lives of innumerable people, most notably myself, our son and our daughter. She often reads with our son, Robby, as part of his daily homework, but she’d want to do it regardless of whether it was an assignment. When she spends time with him, or any of us, her whole world seems brighter.

That innate ability to connect with people has served her so well in her profession: medical oncology. As the picture I have painted shows, Kathy is so much more than just a physician. But the branch of medicine she chose suits her gifts impeccably.

A few weeks after Kathy and I became engaged (after just two months of dating), a lunchtime question from a colleague came out of the blue. The question hung in the air for a moment as I pondered what my colleague asked: “How does Kathy stop from getting close to her patients?”

The question said something about how an outsider looking in sometimes doesn’t understand what good cancer doctors are really all about. They are not simply mechanics who provide necessary medicines then collect a fee. Oncologists also are cheerleaders, pathfinders, advocates, healers, handholders, psychologists and parents all rolled into one. Many is the time I’ve told Kathy, “I have no idea how you do what you do.” Good oncologists are a special breed. They can do their job perfectly – prescribe the right medicine, follow every step, make every diagnosis – and they can still “fail.” How many professions are there like that?

The answer I gave to my colleague’s question – “How does she stop from getting close to her patients?” – cut to the heart of who Kathy is as a person, and it was a simple answer: “She doesn’t,” I said. “She does get close to them. She shares their fears, their hopes, their sorrows, their joys. She has to. They have to know that she’s in the fight to stay.”

That’s why I fell in love with Kathy in the spring of 1998. Her heart radiates faith, love and hope. Her first instinct – to trust and empathize – is a remarkably refreshing approach, be it with family, friends, patients or strangers.

Kathy has asked me before how she has made a difference in my life. I’ve not been able to answer that because the question is so big. But I’d have to say that her faith in God has opened my eyes wider to all the wonders around us; her belief in the goodness of people has opened my heart; and her trust has allowed me to love as fully as I ever have.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Kathy

Happy Valentine's Day, Kathy, Part 1

We’ve started a new tradition in our house, and it was the brainchild of my wife. The three of us – myself, my wife, Kathy, and our son, Robby – hold hands and say a prayer at the beginning of each workday/school day. We ask God to bless us in our many tasks, asking that we keep in mind His word and His example to us through His son, Jesus.

Now, many Christians talk a good game when it comes to prayer, but in practice, well … let’s just say some are left wanting. I try to pray each night, but admittedly, I sometimes sign in but forget to sign out. We’ve been praying together each morning for a couple of months now and not only is it helpful, it really speaks to who my wife is as a Christian, a person and a woman.

If one’s approach to life is measured either with an arrow pointed up or an arrow pointed down, my wife’s arrow is most assuredly pointed up. Kathy always tries to find the positive in just about any situation, and more importantly, in just about any person. She constantly encourages our son to share his smile with others and find the right way to solve problems. I do not hear her speak ill of anyone; if someone has not treated her well, Kathy will say, “Well, maybe they were having a bad day.” She is quick to forgive.

Sometimes she takes the bright outlook to an interesting level: anytime we’re watching a football game and some pushing or shoving breaks out, Kathy says, “Guys, guys. Be nice to each other.”

Kathy loves to laugh. Many a time we’ve been in a movie theater, and she bursts out laughing at a particularly funny scene. She surprises herself when she does this, because she’ll cover her mouth thinking it’s too loud. I just smile when she does that.

Kathy also is moved easily to tears. A dear friend of mine once said of herself, “Oh, I cry at supermarket openings.” That’s Kathy, too. If something moves her, she’ll tear up, be it a passage from a book, some personal encounter or a movie. It’s one of her most endearing qualities. “Don’t ever change,” I say to her.

It’s her zest for life that makes her so special and what drew me to her 12 years ago. I was introduced to Kathy as I was rebuilding my life after my first wife passed away. It was a very rough year, trying to balance the needs of – first – my grade-school daughter, then a house, my career and working through the process of mourning and grief. By the time I met Kathy, I had steadied the ship, but its heading was uncertain. Enter a 36-year-old whose energetic way, tender heart and devotion to God got me back on course.

After being introduced, Kathy and I had our first date in February 1998. It was a remarkable evening. Neither of us was nervous because we talked for two hours BEFORE we went to dinner. She made me feel so at ease, so comfortable. It was her giving nature that first drew me to her, that and her dynamite smile, an amazing combination of warmth and enamel!

After dinner, she invited me in for coffee. I immediately accepted, even though I was not a coffee drinker. A chance to spend a few more minutes with her was perfect. We said our good-byes a short time later, and as I walked down the steps, I felt something I hadn’t in such a long time. I looked back at her, went back up the steps and kissed her good night again. I then realized that my heart, closed off for months, was actually beating again.

Up next: Part 2

Happy birthday, Elaine

February 1, 1958 does not occupy a particularly significant spot in history. On that date Egypt and Syria merged into the United Arab Republic (it lasted only three years), and the U.S. satellite Explorer 1 was launched.

But it was on that date at a hospital in Greenwood, S.C., that a 37-year-old mother of two gave birth to her first daughter. For the next 14,143 days, this infant/toddler/girl/woman brought light to all the lives she touched. Her name was Elaine Russell.

She grew up in the little mill village of Ware Shoals, S.C., lovingly attended to by her mother, Rachel, and her father, William Delbert Russell. She was also loved – as much as siblings can love – by her two older brothers and, later, a kid sister.

What she brought to this world was a mix of compassion, tolerance, faith in God, intelligence, humor and love that drew you to her. People congregated toward Elaine because once she was your friend, that was it: you were her friend for life. She didn’t pit people against each other; rather, she brought people together, making them feel welcome no matter the circumstance. Many a time people would be visiting and announce that they’d have to leave, only to have Elaine say, “Oh, stay on a while.” Those invitations were sincere.

Elaine fell in love when she was 27, and married a fellow newspaper person when she was 28. If there is such a thing as “marrying up” in life, then her husband surely did that. It was she who brought joy and richness to their union, lifting a man who had been lonely and searching for that one, special someone for a long time. They were in love and devoted to each other, a true doubleheader of life.

Life continued to bless them with their daughter, Rachel, less than three years after they married. Elaine’s daughter was the light of her life, and Elaine was the center of Rachel’s existence. They loved reading together, playing games, entertaining friends and simply being with each other.

Elaine found time to become a free-lance writer, get involved with their church and become a Brownie troop leader.

But this is no fairy tale; it’s a study in the human condition. Humans are, in the final analysis, frail creatures, subject to the randomness and vagaries of life. A pulmonary disease descended with terrible swiftness and claimed this woman on Oct. 30, 1996.

But even as her body betrayed her, Elaine’s mind and spirit wouldn’t succumb to self pity. Her husband found this short essay about a month after she died, written in one of the notebooks she kept.

"Why me?
Why can't I breathe well? Why I am virtually housebound hooked to an oxygen machine? Why have I had three major illnesses in my lifetime when some people breeze through the years without setting foot in a hospital?
Believe it or not, these are questions I have NOT asked myself as I've struggled with my most recent bout with sickness.
A more appropriate question might be 'Why not me?'
In times of frustration, despair or indecision, it's easy to look to the heavens and ask God 'Why me?'
But if I ask that question in troubled times, shouldn't I ask it when things are their sunniest, when life is easy, when everything is going my way?
Why was I born into a wonderful, caring family when so many children are unwanted and unloved?
Why have I been blessed with many friends in many places over the years?
Why did a find a wonderful man to marry and, with him, have a beautiful daughter?
Why do I live in a comfortable home and have plenty to eat while the world is filled with homeless and hungry people?
Why me? What have I ever done to deserve even one of the blessings I've known?"

That last question is one asked by all who knew Elaine Russell in the 38 years, 8 months and 29 days she was with us. None of us deserve the blessings we receive, but maybe we can ask for the wisdom to acknowledge them.

So today, 52 years after she was born, we acknowledge the blessing that was Elaine Russell. Happy birthday, Elaine.

Full Reversal, Part 4

This vulnerable man I write of was, obviously, not always this way. Quite the contrary, Dad was on the other end of the spectrum when I was growing up and even into my college years.

We were raised in an Epsicopal household. That is, my mother took us to church on Sundays. We also would have an advent wreath that we would gather around at Christmastime. But that was about it. I remember seeing my father in worship when I was little, but after we moved a couple of times, the memories of my father being in a church were almost non-existent. Also never brought up with Dad were conversations dealing with Jesus, God or faith. My father’s spirit was so lost that he got up right after I had been confirmed, choosing to leave the sanctuary before the rest of the service concluded. My father viewed most people who went to church as “pagan.”

But then Mom died of lung cancer in the spring of 1979. It was a crushing blow to our family, and it nearly killed my then 54-year-old father. He shook his fists in anger at God and swore he’d show Him a thing or two. Well, guess who won that smackdown?

Slightly more than a year after Mom died, Dad met Sally, a divorcee who was devout in her faith in Jesus and active in her Southern Baptist congregation in Memphis. It was through her example of strong faith that God opened my father’s eyes. I recently told Sally that, with God’s help, she had saved Dad, just as if she had pulled him from a burning house or a raging sea. “Really?” she said. “Oh yes,” I told her. He would’ve been dead a long time ago, consumed by all the bitterness and anger he had inside.

I still remember Dad calling me at my first job out of college to say he had started going to church and truly believed in Jesus’ life, ministry, resurrection and promise. I pulled the phone away from my ear, looked at it and thought, “OK, where is my father and what have you done with him?”

To think that Dad could come to believe, truly believe, in God, Jesus and the promise of salvation is, well, humbling. As Jesus told the no-longer-possessed man, “Return home and tell how much God has done for you.” As my father joyfully says today, God did much for Dad, and his spirit was transformed through God’s grace.

As my family enters this new phase with Dad, all of us pray that God’s grace will see us through. I know many people are praying for him, and all of us are grateful for that. But praying is as much for the person asking for God’s help as it is for whom the help is sought. Be mindful that God truly does answer prayers, but the outcome is not always the answer we think it should be. Whenever I pray, I always ask, finally, that whatever the outcome, please help me find the strength to deal with the final result.