3 Rows Back

“Those who are happiest are those who do the most for others.” ~Booker T. Washington, African-American educator, author, orator, and adviser to presidents of the United States (1856-1915)

Ron and his wife edged their way up the narrow center aisle toward their seats in 32 A and 32 B. The overhead space was filling quickly, but he managed to find space for their carry-ons just in front of their seats. 

As he was stuffing the bags into the cramped compartment he noticed a woman sitting three rows back with two small twin boys; perhaps three to four years old. He wasn’t sure why they had caught his attention, but before he had time to consider it, someone behind him asked if he could move.

Ron plopped into his seat and all but forgot about the woman and the two children. After the perfunctory announcements and mandatory instructions the plane rumbled down the runway and lifted off. Leveling off at 30,000 it began the long arced path toward Los Angeles.

Fifteen minutes into the flight it started. The twin boys began screaming and whining; sometimes together, sometimes separately, but always incessantly shrill and annoying. The woman did her best to calm the children, but without success. Even over the thrum of the jet engines their wails and cries could be heard throughout the plane.

Ron’s wife turned to him: “How awful for that poor woman. Remember what it was like taking our children on a plane trip when they were little?”

Unfortunately, peoples’ sympathy quickly turned to irritation. Passengers peered around their seats and up the aisle to see what was causing the fracas. Some went so far as to stand up and stare at the woman and her children as if that would quiet them. The wailing continued.

Passengers, headed for the restrooms, glowered at the children as they passed. Twice the Head Stewardess went back to “have a chat” with the woman. Nothing seemed to appease the children. The shrill cries of the two boys went on for nearly an hour. Several times the twins quieted down, but just when it seemed serenity would reign they started up again.

Finally, when it seemed peace would never return again, a man in 28C stood up. He turned and looked in the direction of the woman with the children. His face was passive and calm. A slight, patient smile seemed to play across his face for a moment. He removed his headset, placed it on his seat and walked back to where the three were seated.

“Hi, I’m Robert,” he said. “I have two young boys of my own. Maybe I can help.” He carefully took one child in each arm and began to walk up and down the aisle, talking to them as they went. The boys quickly became quiet. They even began to laugh and smile. Soon they leaned their heads against the man’s chest and fell asleep. He returned the sleeping children to the woman.

The grateful woman thanked him profusely. “I can’t thank you enough,” she said. “This has been a very difficult week for them.” “You see, I’m not their mother. I’m their grandmother. Their mother, my baby girl, was killed in a traffic accident. I’m all they've got left.”

Being willing to offer to help is the trademark of a faithful Christian steward. However, unlike the story of the “Good Samaritan,” help is usually without the drama of a roadside rescue, in a desolate countryside, with danger lurking in the shadows. Rather, these opportunities, more often than not, present themselves, in common places: on street corners, in parking lots, in grocery stores and even on airplanes.

It is at times like these that we may ask ourselves: “Why doesn’t someone do something about this.” But, all too often that “someone” could or should be us.

Our perspective of the story of the children changes as we come to understand the situation. At first it is easy to assume the woman is simply an incompetent mother who can’t control her children. When we discover that the children are orphans our empathy ramps up. But shouldn’t we always approach others with empathy?

God’s plans for us don’t usually appear on our day planners and cell phones. God puts us in the paths of others who need our help. And, like the man in 28C, we are called to rise to the challenge.

Dear God, Who do you need me to help today? 

“There is no exercise better for the heart than reaching down and lifting people up.”  ~Rev John Haynes Holmes, prominent Unitarian minister and pacifist, founding member of the NAACP & ACLU (1879-1964)

©2013 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.

“90 Second Stewardship” is a reflection on being a Christian Steward in a secular and sometimes harsh world. This reflection is written by Deacon James E. Carper, Director of Marketing and Development at Holy Name of Jesus School in south/central Los Angeles. All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2013 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” is included along with this message. Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections. If written approval is given the “© 2013 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message. Questions or comments may be directed to Jim Carper by return e-mail or at the contact information found below.

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Name Answering

“People are too complicated to have simple labels.” From The Amber Spyglass by Phillip Pullman, British writer (b 1946)

Howard stared with trepidation down the long expanse which led to his first period class. The terrazzo-paved halls lined with industrial tan lockers looked more like a gauntlet than a pathway to higher learning. 

Who knew what humiliation or intimidation lay around the corner somewhere between social studies and the humanities? He had so looked forward to going to High School; but now, six weeks into his first semester, he wished he were back in Junior High.

It was 1968 and Howard was a high school freshman. His father was a local policeman who worked in drug enforcement.  His father’s vocation was no secret, and growing up during the height of the “drug revolution” of the late 60’s made him a readily available target for his classmates who were members of the “drug culture.”  Usually their taunts were subtle. An “oink, oink” sound made under their breath as they passed by. Or, “Soo-ee, Soo-ee!” shouted in the staircase behind him.

Other times he would get roughed up or his books unexpectedly knocked from my hands or his locker trashed, even though it was locked. If a teacher or the principal appeared his persecutors always managed to either disappear or appear casually uninvolved. 

To add insult to injury, the teachers always seemed to unexplainably attach blame to Howard. “What’s-a-matter with you, Kulkowski! Can’t you hold onto your books?” the teacher would quip.

The “Stoners” favorite pastime was to call him “piglet” since his father was, after all, a “pig.” The fact that Howard was on the pudgy side didn’t help matters much. He knew he physically fit the description.

Howard did his best to hide his problems from his father. This wasn’t always possible since he sometimes arrived home from school with torn clothes or a bloody nose.

His father’s interrogations were almost as bad as putting up with the “Stoners.” Dad’s answer was always the same -- aggression. “Do more damage to them than they do to you; then they will leave you alone,” he would say.  This never seemed like a viable option since he was usually outnumbered two or three to one. Even one-on-one he wasn’t sure he was equipped for a direct assault, since his aggressors were mostly upper classman.

One day, while visiting his grandparents, who lived nearby, Howard’s grandmother noticed bruises on his arms -- the result of being grabbed by two assailants and then slammed up against a locker. The marks were the remnants of their handprints. At first he lied, too embarrassed to tell her what had really happened. 

But, after some gentle encouragement, Howard broke down and told her everything, right down to the embarrassing nickname, “Piglet.” She listened thoughtfully the whole time, never interrupting, questioning or judging.

When Howard had finished he sat there staring at his hands. Finally, the silence was too much for him. “Whadaya think, Grandma?” he asked, not looking up. His grandmother gently reached out, placed her knuckle under his chin, and lifted his head.

“It’s been my experience that people like that gain more satisfaction from the responses they generate than the acts they commit. In other words, the more you ignore what they do, and the less you respond to their actions, the sooner they will get bored and move on.” Howard looked at his hands again.

“As for the names they call you?” she continued. “Try to remember, it’s not the names that people call you that matters. It’s the name you answer to that’s important.”

We have become a society of labels: Democrat, Republican, Conservative, Liberal, Tea Partier, Wall Street Occupier, etc.  Sadly, labeling others does not enhance our relationships with them; it simply makes it easier to dismiss them. I’m a Democrat so I don’t associate with Republicans. I’m a Conservative so I don’t want anything to do with Liberals…

We seem to have forgotten that racial slurs and racist or cultural remarks are also forms of labeling. The reverse problem is when people begin to buy-in to the labels others give them. Calling others stupid, lazy, or worthless can leave scars deeper than any cutting instrument. 

Unfortunately, like Howard, we often can’t control what others call us. But, his grandmother was right; we can work at not buying-in to the names we are called. It’s the names we answer to, not the names we are called that matter.

One of those names is “Child of God.” As loving and grateful stewards we would do well to remember that, “I know I’m somebody because God don’t make no junk.” We are called to treat others like the Children of God that they are and know that that’s what we are, too.

Dear God: You knew me before anyone else…I will answer when you call.

    

“Once you label me you negate me.” Soren Kierkegaard, Danish philosopher, theologian, poet, social critic, and religious author (1813-1855)

©2013 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.