To be utterly unnoticeable...

"We have a tendency to look for wonder in our experience, and we mistake heroic actions for real heroes. It's one thing to go through a crisis grandly yet quite another to go through life glorifying God when there is no witness, no limelight, and no one paying even the remotest attention to us. If we are not looking for halos, we at least want something that will make people say, 'What a wonderful man of prayer he is!' or 'What a great woman of devotion she is!' ...To be utterly unnoticeable requires God's spirit in us making us absolutely humanly His. The true test of a saint's life is not successfulness but faithfulness on the level of human life." 

- Oswald Chambers 

 I don't know about you, but I can relate to these words.  Thomas Aquinas said that the four typical substitutes for God are wealth, pleasure, power, and honor.  I - like all of us - am immune to none of these, and constantly struggle with a few in particular.  I've grown quite adept in the illusionary arts - my transgressions are not so extroverted that they gleam for all to see, yet they are there, subtly feeding my ego.  Once in awhile I am given the grace of recognizing the truth of my motivations, what is behind the curtain.  I don't like what I find there, yet I am unwilling to ask it to leave.   In all honesty, I'm looking at it as I write this...

This quote reminds me of a scene in the wonderful C.S. Lewis book "The Great Divorce".  The premise of the book is that there are many living in Hell, but don't know it.  By chance some take a mystical bus ride to heaven - again unawares of the truth of the situation.  The visitors see many fanciful things there, glimpses of the wonders of a blessed life...

“First came bright Spirits, not the Spirits of men, who danced and scattered flowers. Then, on the left and right, at each side of the forest avenue, came youthful shapes, boys upon one hand, and girls upon the other. If I could remember their singing and write down the notes, no man who read that score would ever grow sick or old. Between them went musicians: and after these a lady in whose honour all this was being done...But I have forgotten. And only partly do I remember the unbearable beauty of her face.

“Is it?...is it?” I whispered to my guide.
“Not at all,” said he. “It's someone ye'll never have heard of. Her name on earth was Sarah Smith and she lived at Golders Green.”
“She seems to be...well, a person of particular importance?”
“Aye. She is one of the great ones. Ye have heard that fame in this country and fame on Earth are two quite different things.”
“And who are these gigantic people...look! They're like emeralds...who are dancing and throwing flowers before here?”
“Haven't ye read your Milton? A thousand liveried angels lackey her.”
“And who are all these young men and women on each side?”
“They are her sons and daughters.”
“She must have had a very large family, Sir.”
“Every young man or boy that met her became her son – even if it was only the boy that brought the meat to her back door. Every girl that met her was her daughter.”
“Isn't that a bit hard on their own parents?”
“No. There are those that steal other people's children. But her motherhood was of a different kind. Those on whom it fell went back to their natural parents loving them more. Few men looked on her without becoming, in a certain fashion, her lovers. But it was the kind of love that made them not less true, but truer, to their own wives.”
“And how...but hullo! What are all these animals? A cat-two cats-dozens of cats. And all those dogs...why, I can't count them. And the birds. And the horses.”
“They are her beasts.”
“Did she keep a sort of zoo? I mean, this is a bit too much.”
“Every beast and bird that came near her had its place in her love. In her they became themselves. And now the abundance of life she has in Christ from the Father flows over into them.”
I looked at my Teacher in amazement.
“Yes,” he said. “It is like when you throw a stone into a pool, and the concentric waves spread out further and further. Who knows where it will end? Redeemed humanity is still young, it has hardly come to its full strength. But already there is joy enough int the little finger of a great saint such as yonder lady to waken all the dead things of the universe into life.”

― C.S. Lewis, The Great Divorce

Assistant Coaches

We all need assistant coaches in life.  Good assistants keep life in perspective.  They humble us when we’re too full of ourselves, lift us up after we’ve buried ourselves, and straighten our course when we’ve lost focus.  They make us laugh, know when we’re on the verge of tears, share victory and shed defeat.  They can teach us to set priorities.  They show us everything is not work.  They open us to new life, allow us to make mistakes, ignore that which is not important, and encourage positive risk taking.     

            As an offensive coordinator at Parkway South for fifteen years, I ran many runways with “Air South,” as we came to be known, onto the gridiron under the Friday night lights.  Our staff grew to be good friends as well as strategists, students of the game.  Eventually, the Patriots evolved from upending teams we were not expected to beat to a team ranked as a target for others to make their mark on a season.  We were blessed with so many remarkable kids with a great variety of gifts!  As many know, an athlete’s maximum time with our team is four short years, freshman through senior.  However, we were blessed with four who ran the runway each season for eight years!

            Identified in team photographs among trainers, Big Jeff, Jay, Michael, and Ray sprayed water on overheated linemen in the August heat and humidity, brought supplies to our med tech when injuries occurred and fluids to fight dehydration.  Though easily distracted during practice, they had uncanny timing when deciding to joust amongst themselves with foam-padded blocking shields interrupting the most intense moments in scrimmages. 

            After crunching equations in chemistry and physics on game day, I enjoyed “setting the field” to clear my mind for football (don’t get that opportunity with artificial turf).  We may not have seen our four boys for days, but they never missed game days.  Jeff, Jay, Michael and Ray always converged on the freshly cut grass thrilled to play under the colorful fall evenings.  At 6’5” pushing 400 pounds in Nike high-toppers, Jeff waddled out to the 40-yard line carrying a sack like Santa stuffed with footballs.  Scattering them on the field at Ray’s request, they’d launch balls at Joey, a fixed target with ankle braces and wrist crutches, and Michael a slow oscillating target with Down Syndrome.  Though a strike may happen only once every few weeks, it generally resulted in a minor bruising to the face or Joey biting the turf after a missile took out a crutch.  They’d reenact plays hollering teammates’ names rather than assumed professionals’ one might expect.  By the time I’d set my last pregame warmup, the four disappeared to romp and wrestle on the pole vault mats stored beneath the stadium bleachers. 

After an embarrassing, intimidated half of football against a highly-ranked opponent, Michael anticipated Coach Y’s Texas temper before a hushed squad.  As Coach Y entered the visitor’s locker room, Michael awkwardly kicked a trashcan sliding it a short distance.  Expecting to magnify Michael’s prelude and launch the can into orbit, Coach Y side-winded his toe through the base of the rusted can.  The pierced trashcan clamped to his boot.  Guttural pandemonium exploded.  Players erupted along with staff laughing as our deflated head coach hopped around trying to shake the jaws of the can from his cowboy boot.  Little did we know as a young staff, that moment would define us as a coaching unit.  During the second half, we unleashed an explosive aerial attack in an impressive victory.  We learned we didn’t have the fastest, most physically gifted players, but they were sharp and willing to learn.  Rather than emotionally charge the atmosphere, we focused adjustments beyond scouting reports to opponents’ weaknesses without panic.  Constructive instruction and dialogue filled our future halftimes.  During a 12-1 season five years later, we would win 8 of 9 games coming back from deficits of 7 or more at halftime.  South developed an exciting reputation for coming from behind.  Our teams adopted a “never out of this” attitude.  Michael received our only “kick the can” award in Patriot history at the season’s celebratory banquet. 

Though that halftime might have been a tipping point for us as a staff, we still had our moments.  Coach Y often vocalized his disenchantment with officials especially after clipping calls nullified significant yardage gains.  As if on some divine cue, Michael mimicked when the yellow hankie landed.  “You can pick that up and stick it where the sun don’t shine!” 

Resting his lumbering forearm upon my shoulder, Jeff interrupted my halftime instructions.  “Hey, Timmy.” Only Jeff’s mellow signature embraced all coaches by their first names. “Don’t forget to remind Lamar to catch the football.  He can’t drop them.”  I responded quickly before losing my squad to the big boy’s recommendation.  “Jeff, I think Lamar knows that.”

Jeff tried working for McDonald’s in a co-op program.  He shared with me as we walked to the locker room.  He was “let go.” He repeated what he’d overheard a manager say; “the kid’s eating us into bankruptcy.” 

“Timmy, I told Mickie D’s I had to ‘let them go.’  I don’t work during football season!”

When traveling, Big Jeff filled the first bus bench on the left while Joey, Michael, and Ray disappeared in the right bench.  Playing away as visitors seemed to liberate the boys to wander.  With a comfortable lead while playing at a Catholic school, Ray and Jeff had followed our opponents into their locker room.  Their head coach quickly assessed his intruders and graciously escorted them to our locker room.  Ray spontaneously announced, “The announcers drink beer in the booth!”  Ray might have actually been old enough to drink.

Of all activities preceding game time, the boys repeatedly chose to race each other at least once on the stadium track.  It was ugly.  Jeff shifted his weight taking two quicker steps before dropping into his normal low gear.  Ray generally declared victory as Michael veered into entangling Joey’s crutches taking both for a tumble far in advance of Jeff who’d assist them to their feet once he arrived.  They’d say a couple terse words before breaking into laughter.  I’d watch it all unfold again on a different track.

Earlier on a day of travel, we learned just before boarding the bus, Ted, Jeff’s older and bigger brother, suffered from cardiac problems and died while walking home along Manchester Road.  As I attempted to console Jeff, he responded frankly, “Ted’s gone to heaven.  It’s a good place for Ted.”  And that’s where Jeff wanted to leave it.  The boys didn’t race and didn’t wander that night, sticking unusually close to each other along the sideline. 

On another occasion where we narrowly escaped a major upset and played to the level of a weaker opponent, Joey, by far the most vocal, rounded a loaded bus breaking our circled coaches like a cue ball.  “We stunk up the field!  We sucked!”  Lifting a crutch high and striking the ground, an animated Joey continued, “Sometimes you just suck.  You don’t improve.”  He slapped Coach Y on the back with the other crutch, “We’re good, but not tonight!”  Joey hobbled to the door as a couple players lifted him up onto the bus. 

How often in Christ’s parables and along the journey with his apostles did He put situations into perspective?  How often did He request of his followers to live in the moment with Him as He would only be with them a short time?  When did Jesus act spontaneously, directly, yet compassionately?  How often and in what circumstances did Jesus pull folks aside to refocus them?  Why did Jesus request we foster the hearts of children?

The end of each game capped a long day of work and play.  Upon our return, three of the boys’ parents consistently waited to take them home.  Joey’s dad often carried his exhausted son half asleep to the car.  Jeff lived within walking distance of South.  However, he’d wander waiting until after all the players had driven away to mooch a ride.   Jeff filled my passenger side.  He reclined the seat back as he’d always do, reposition his hat, roll down a window, sling his large forearm outside and fiddle his fingers on the roof.  This night, we stopped to exit the lot.  Jeff pointed in the opposing direction.  “That way.”

            I frowned, confused.  “Got a different route home, tonight?”

            “No, just cruisin’ coach!”  Content, he looked straight ahead into full moonlight.

            I smiled remaining silent.  We took a little longer route home.

Some assistants fit perfect niches.  The four fit mine.  God knows, there are many days I miss my assistant coaches!

Fearless Girl

By Fred Vilbig

They recently installed a new statue on Wall Street. It’s called “Fearless Girl.” The Fearless Girl statue was installed directly in front of the famous Charging Bull statue. It depicts a defiant little girl facing down a raging bull.

I sincerely hope that no young girl is literally inspired by this statue. Bulls on average weigh 2,500 pounds. An angry bull is nothing to trifle with. If you are ever threatened by an angry bull, back away slowly toward a fence or a wall (assuming you can scale the wall quickly, of course) without further alarming the bull. If the bull starts to charge, you should run in a zig-zag pattern as fast as you can in the general direction of that fence or wall. If you’re lucky, you may be able to outmaneuver it like a bullfighter. If not, you’ll be dead.

Reflections on Dad

by Mike Hey

Joshua 1:9
Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go.

As Father’s Day approaches I have been finding myself thinking about my Dad. At odd times, even dreams. Perhaps this is his way of letting me know that even dead; he is still always with me. He was a quiet man, stoic perhaps, who worked hard and loved his family. Sound like yours? He was a man’s man who had no issues telling us that he loved us, which he did frequently. He also loved his country, and what is reported as news today would have him rolling over in his grave. Mom always says that she misses him terribly but is glad he is not alive today to witness our world.

Growing older has given me a small measure of wisdom and some of that is a realization of how remarkable this common man was. He had a good job managing the Budgets Department at McDonnell Douglas. But his job never surpassed his family. We were always first, Mom and three kids. I know of at least one occasion where he passed on a lucrative executive promotion. Mom and I did not like the thought of leaving the country. Today I still think it was one of the most selfish acts I’ve ever done, foolish too for a missed opportunity. Dad never said a thing about it, just returned to work like it was never offered.

My relationship with my father was complicated at times. As a teenager and until I starting working myself one could have characterized me as an asshole. Seemed the more I rebelled the harder he came down on me. Neither of us was willing to compromise. Man we had some fights, mostly because of foolish shit I’d do. Tough lessons. When I did listen to him, fortunately, I did learn some valuable lessons. The first was how to treat women. It was always evident to us kids that Mom and Dad were deeply in love. They talked often. He listened to her and respected her. Later in his life I heard him tell a friend that Mom was his best friend. A second lesson was saving and investing money. Were it not for him, and my likeminded wife, I’d be a pauper today. I was well into my thirties when I finally realized how smart Dad had become. A good athlete himself who may have missed a chance in professional baseball when the Korean War came along, he was the best coach I ever had. My brother and sister would agree. Dad gave up an enormous amount of his free time; I’m sure at the expense of his career, to coach us. I learned more about baseball and basketball by the time I was 10 years old than most people will learn in a lifetime. We played the game correctly. This cursed me because watching a Cardinals game today just makes me crazy. Poor guy tried to teach me golf and that probably cost him a good year of life expectancy. As much as I play these days I hope he’s finally getting a laugh watching me struggle.

He was not perfect. Only one Man ever was. Dad was an alcoholic, a quiet drunk. I can only recall one time as a kid seeing him loaded, and it was after our Khoury League baseball team won a championship where he was partying with the rest of the parents. He was a lifelong smoker and it killed him too soon. It does not escape me that the beer and cigarettes were his stress reducers, knowing that I had a significant role in the stress.

I think he would be mostly pleased with his firstborn. I survived Mike’s stupid years. I know he is delighted that I returned to the Church and am involved in my faith and spiritual growth. He struggled with his faith as well, especially as an older man. I pray to him and for him, probably not as much as I should. Note to self. I often seek his guidance especially as it regards my aging mother. You know; what would Dad do stuff. Maybe this is how his memory keeps regularly returning?

There is an annual rebroadcast on Father’s Day of an old Jack Buck program. It is usually in the 11 o’clock hour on KMOX Sports on a Sunday morning. If you’ve heard it you know what I’m going to say. If you haven’t you should try to listen. The only spoiler alert I’ll give you is that if you haven’t had a good cry in a while – listen.

So Dad’s probably saying to himself finish your blog before you start boring your audience – you’re already boring me! You men fortunate enough to still have your Dad should say a prayer of thanks for him this Father’s Day. Spend some time with the man who gave you life and all the blessings in it. Tell him you love him. I’ll visit my father’s gravesite and do the same.

Proverbs 3:11-12
My son, do not despise the LORD’s discipline, and do not resent his rebuke,  because the LORD disciplines those he loves, as a father the son he delights in.