Roger Barbee

By Roger Barbee

Alex and I met when he was a 6^th grader in the all-boys’ college preparatory school in Alexandria, VA where I taught and coached. Our meeting happened during the late 1970’s, and if you were a student there, in that time, a few avenues existed in which to show excellence- academics, athletics, or both. The school required participation in athletics each season, and in the winter I coached wrestling,  Since Alex was too small and too short for basketball, he “chose” wrestling.  

Even in the 6^th grade Alex showed his mettle. He was one of those athletes that every coach loves to have on the team because he had a desire to be the best possible wrestler he could be, and his drive made him a role model, but not a role model who was a great wrestler or even one who was on the varsity squad; Alex modeled dedication in working to achieve the most that he could.  While he did win some varsity matches when a teammate was injured or could not otherwise compete in a match, his career was one on the junior varsity squad. He was too good for that role, but not good enough for the varsity. But he was always present, and his presence  demanded attention because if a teammate or opponent relaxed, Alex would attack with and either score points or win. Although he never won a varsity tournament, he won or placed high in every junior varsity tournament he entered. Too good for the one, not quite good enough for the other, but as coaches say, “a force to be reckoned with.”

Alex, now a past fifty-year-old attorney living in suburban VA, and I still communicate, and when I recently learned that his mother had died, I called him. He shared with me his mother’s final bout with kidney and heart issues and how his siblings and he were able to share precious time with her during her final days. While it is true that she was 83 when she died, her siblings had lived well into their 90’s, so her fatal illness was one for which she and her children were not fully prepared. But as she did in her life, she managed all things well and she shared time with her children. One time, when she and Alex were sharing precious minutes, she told him how pleased she was with his achievements in college, his life well lived, and the other successes he had had. He told me how she talked about his career as an attorney and “all your wrestling medals.” With that, Alex struggled before saying, “Coach, all I ever won was a few J.V. medals, but she told me how proud she was of them.” Then our talk paused until he could softly say, “I never knew that she was even aware of them that much.”

Our conversation continued as we talked about how he and his older brother were coping. We discussed the advantages of his returning to his work and office, but that the process of grieving was also important.  Sharing his grief, I offered him encouragement that seemed banal in the shadow of  his pain. Out of words, all I could offer at the end of our conversation was that he could call me anytime he felt the need to talk.

But I keep remember something Alex’s mother had said to him during one of their last talks. Facing her death, Alex’s mother looked back across the years for some comfort to give her now-grown baby child. She found what she needed: Words of praise for his accomplishments, even those as a junior varsity wrestler.

By Roger Barbee

Growing up in North Carolina, we seemed to always have a dog for a family pet, but I was not a hunter of any kind, so I never trained or owned hunting dogs. Some uncles had beagles and coon hounds, and as a young boy I shivered around many campfires as they talked about which dog was leading the pack. A few duck hunting relatives used retrievers such as the golden, the Labrador, and the Chesapeake Bay on their duck hunts, so this is my knowledge of retrievers.  Therefore, when I met Manny after his family moved from the rocky Atlantic coast of Rhode Island to Lake Norman, N.C. I was unfamiliar with his breed—the Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever. That’s quite a breed name for a dog weighing at most fifty pounds.

Curious about Manny and his breed, I conducted a simple Internet search and discovered the interesting heritage of Manny. His long, roan colored hair, similar to that of the Irish Setter, not only protected him in the cold waters of Nova Scotia but caused him to appear like a fox. The hunters/breeders in Nova Scotia had discovered that ducks were fascinated by foxes, so they would come close to shore if they saw one. Thus, Manny and his kind, all energetic dogs, were bred to run along the shore looking like a fox and the curious ducks would be lured within gunshot range of the hunter. Then the strong swimmer would retrieve the shot ducks. The luring action explains their name because tollen is derived from Middle English which means, among other things, “to summon.” They literally summoned the ducks for their masters.

Unfortunately,  I did not get to know Manny that well or long because he was already thirteen when I met him. I missed his young days of swimming in the cold waters of Rhode Island while playing with his young owners. I like to think that he thought nothing of jumping into the northeast waters of the Atlantic when he was lured to it by one of them. I missed those vibrant days of his youth, but I would see him moseying along on an early morning walk in his front yard. Sometimes he would “slip away” from his human companion and walk in his cul-de-sac and sometimes try to make it all the way to our shared road. But better than the yard or road, he liked the lake. After all, that is what he was bred for. Water.

While I did not get to know Manny that well, I have gotten to know the middle child of the family. Gabby is in her mid-twenties and works in Boston. She is an independent, strong young female who carries herself well. She has a fire that I greatly admire and holds her family, boyfriend, and Manny close. So when her parents told her that Manny was fading, she and her boyfriend flew from Boston to the lake to be with her family, and she cherished Manny. 

My wife Mary Ann holds that no pet’s last day should be its worst, and Manny’s masters had watched him closely to ensure that he was now just old, not suffering, but fading in body and spirit. This week they decided that it was time because he was losing control of his bowel and bladder; he slept most of the time, and his days of swimming in the wild Atlantic had passed. The preacher writes in Ecclesiastes that “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.” It was Manny’s season.

Manny’s last day was definitely not his worst. His family fed him his favorites, they cuddled him in his blanket, and as for the past fifteen years, they unconditionally loved him. Gabby, the grown middle child,  honored him and his breed by taking him for a last swim in the lake. After all, Manny was a Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever who was bred for the water. It was her last gift to a cherished member of their family.

By Roger Barbee

“Good People”

Just after moving to Lake Norman four years ago, Ethel and I met when I was riding my stationary bike near our road. As I would witness over the following years, she would appear on her morning walk, and she would stop long enough to chat. On that first morning, she asked me a  few questions about my wife and me and why we moved to the lake-the usual inquires that a stranger would make. Satisfied, she said, “Well, you seem like good people,” and turned to continue her walk home.

Many walkers dot our road, but she was one of the earliest every day. If I were any bit past early, I would miss her, except on Thursday’s when she walked after going to the landfill with her week’s collection of pine cones dutifully gleaned from  her well-tended lawn. Oh, and she walked after attending Sunday School and service at Williamson’s Chapel each Sunday, so I would often see her on my way home from our church. She would still be dressed in her “Sunday outfit.” And on Wednesday’s we always knew that she had already walked by because the Mooresville Tribune would be centered on the driveway, telling how she had rescued it from the ditch where the route person seems to enjoy placing it.

When she found out that we had three dogs, she began placing plastic, newspaper bags in our newspaper box. They were used for cleaning after dogs, and they were greatly appreciated. But most of  all, the manner in which she packed the bags was telling of her character. Each bag was folded in her particular way and carefully placed in a larger one. She packaged them as if they were valuable merchandise. And they were because those simple, plastic bags were a reflection, as she saw it, on her. She would not just cram them into a larger bag because that would not witness to her spirit.

Over the brief time Ethel and I shared, she became much more than an elderly widow who lived on the lower end of our  little road. Learning more and more of her life, I became aware that she, like so many of her era, are those who persevere. She was in her later eighties yesterday when she died, and she was a cancer survivor, but I learned not to be fooled by her slender frame that did not speak to her grit.

For the past weeks she has been house-bound, too ill to venture out on one of her walks. While I knew of her illness, I always held out the hope that somehow she would appear on our little road on one of her walks. This morning’s ride offered an absolute answer that no longer would Ethel come by on her morning walk and that our chats had ended.

But I hold to the thought that for these four short years, Ethel always saw us as “good people.” She certainly was.

By Roger Barbee

The Covid-19 virus has ruined many small businesses, and local restaurants in and around our town of Mooresville, NC are suffering. My wife and I have several local eateries we like, but we especially enjoy two. When the mandate came that closed them to only take out, we discussed our role in helping them stay open, and decided to make a conscious effort to order some meals from each, realizing that, while take out is not the same as dining in their warm, relaxing atmospheres, they needed our business. If we wanted to enjoy them later, we had to support them now. So,  recently we ordered a take-out supper from one, Blu Star, and at the correct time we drove to pick up our waiting dinner.

Usually if we drove to Blu Star’s location during the dinner hour, traffic would be heavy and parking tight. Not this evening of the pandemic. Boom! Pulled up right in front, and Mary Ann hopped out to get our meal. While I waited, I counted cars in the shopping center—seven parked, but one soon left when its driver came out of the juice bar with her cup of cold, multi-colored liquid. One driver of a huge, black truck parked it deftly and getting out walked towards two  restaurants behind me. Waiting for Mary Ann, I recalled the adage that seemed appropriate for so many businesses in the current situation—any port in a storm. While only one customer, the driver was a person who would spend money, I hoped, at one of the restaurants behind me. He was part of the port so needed right now.

Mary Ann returned to the car and as soon as she sat in her seat, said, “You won’t believe what Nelson [the owner] was doing.” She buckled her seat belt and as we drove out of the forlorn shopping center, she told me how Nelson and a worker were busily packing Styrofoam containers with spaghetti meals for Charlotte homeless. When she asked him about what he was doing, he explained that his church was participating in a program to get good meals to homeless folks, and his restaurant was providing nourishing dinners-spaghetti piled high with yummy sauce, garlic bread, and salad.

Before we had left our home to pick up our dinner, we had discussed how much to tip the manager, who we have known since we moved here. Mary Ann suggested a good sum and when she paid our bill, she gave Stephanie the twenty. Yet, driving home and hearing that story, I realized that no tip was large enough for what was happening in Blu Star, one of the many businesses feeling the crunch of this epidemic. There, in the midst of such a need for income, Nelson and his staff were giving to others who had less than he and them.

Arriving home, I enjoyed my dinner, even if not eaten in the cozy confines of Blu Star. But the more I think of what Mary Ann witnessed, the more I realize that there, on the spread-out tables of Blu Star, was the Sermon on the Mount being played out in real time. Right there.

By Roger Barbee

During my forty-year career in education I witnessed too often the damage of peer pressure. In order to “belong” to a group, a student would adopt behavior and dress to demonstrate they had reached the threshold of being “one of us.” This pressure was mostly negative and even dangerous because it required a student to follow imposed mores and not his or her own morality. At times this acquiescing to demands made by a group could result in serious circumstances, such as when a young female would “give it up” so that she would belong to the group of cool.

We all want to belong; to be a member of something larger than ourselves. Belonging to a group gives us a sense of worth, a sense of safety, and a sense of justice. If we become a member, then we become validated by the group and whatever price paid for membership becomes secondary to the belonging. This herd mentality, we hope, will lead us to herd immunity, the place where all members of our herd are protected by our experience and exposure.

 When I coached a high school wrestling team, I had team tee shirts with “Iron sharpens iron” printed on the backs.  I told the wrestlers that they were to help sharpen their teammates during every practice. I explained that they were each responsible for helping their teammates become better wrestlers and people. Iron sharpens iron. While the wrestlers were part of a team, a herd if you will, or a tribe, even, they were individuals most of all. They were parts of the whole, but they were required to be individual wrestlers, just like the individual strands of a rope. If they were not independent wrestlers, the team suffered because they were not being the best that they could be. Iron sharpens iron. The phrase I used comes from Proverbs 27:17, “Iron sharpeneth iron; so a man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend.”

            But if one becomes trapped in herd mentality then he or she relinquishes individuality and is not sharpened by others. Instead of challenging and making each other sharper, the easy life of following the herd takes over. The price does not matter anymore; all that counts is the sense of belonging to the group. The aspiring member will now do anything to belong to the herd–even expose his or her children to possible infection of a disease that is rapidly spreading. Such illogical acts feed the self-serving aspirant. Membership in the herd has now taken over.

The trap of herd life is all around for Christ followers, and always has been. However, we are reminded to be wary of false leaders and ideas. The 1^st Century Christians had to battle against tempting ideas such as Gnosticism. They had to use the discernment we are all given. They had to be aware! And we are to be aware as well for temptations that come in attractive packages. Such temptations are not only of the flesh, but of the lure of power, money, and belonging to a herd that offers only the allure of riches. After all, we can never be fully immune to any evil. That is perhaps the biggest lie of all.

By Roger Barbee

                                                Reading Old Journals

Reading old journals can be an unsettling or a rich experience. Having thought of some of my journals from the mid-1990’s and later that I had shoved into a drawer of a file cabinet residing in a closet, I decided to pull them out and organize them in chronological order. I realized that I would need to read them, not too closely, but close enough to get the flavor of whatever day, month, and year in which I had written. I opened the first one remembering that Rick Bragg writes in All Over But the Shoutin’ “…dreaming backwards can carry a man through some dark rooms where the walls seem lined with razor blades.”

Reading the first journal that is over twenty years old opened a window to a life half-forgotten. Reading my thoughts of events and people in my then life, most entries surprised or pleased me and a few read as if they were of someone else’s life. Yet one entry was not about me but something I had thought enough of to copy into the journal without naming where I  had found it. Fortunately I had cited an author, whether correct or not.

A July 2000 entry read “Found this” and was followed by what I had copied from somewhere– “Walker’s Decalogue by Howard Zahniser.” Like so many entries, I did not remember anything about this one and not knowing anything about Howard Zahniser I did a quick Internet search and read about his brief but impressive life. His accomplishment as the primary author of the Wilderness Act which Congress passed in 1964 reveals his love and appreciation for wilderness. In his 2016 essay about Zahinser’s  achievements, Max Greenberg for the Wilderness Society paid tribute to him in these words, “He was just a dogged man who did the good, hard work of preserving our natural heritage for generations to come.”

However, what I was most interested in was the “Walker’s Decalogue.” Whether Zahinser had written it, or I had been mistaken in my journal entry of 2000 became secondary. Regardless of its authorship, here is what I had written in my journal, and I am as awed by it now as I obviously had been when I copied it.                                                        

Walker’s Decalogue by Howard Zahniser

1.         Don’t pack your troubles in your rucksack

2.         Don’t grouse at the weather

3.         Don’t miss opportunities of friendship with man or beast

4.         Don’t walk half a yard in front of your companion

5.         Don’t overfeed your body

6.         Don’t starve your mind

7.         Don’t overwork your legs

8.         Don’t lose your temper if you lose your way

9.         Don’t leave anything behind you but a good impression

10.       Don’t take anything away but pleasant memories

Now, I grant that a reader could argue that the decalogue is too negative because of the Don’ts, or a reader could argue for subtraction or addition to the ten. However, I ask the reader to see the decalogue as positive suggestions for a metaphorical journey since we all, whether out on a hike or just travelling to work, are on a journey. In fact, our lives are packed with journeys such as a trip to a grocery, or a drive to visit a friend, and any number of longer/shorter journeys whether we walk, ride, run, fly, or float-we are sojourners.

Any list is bound to engender a discussion for favorites, and I admit to being partial to Don’t number 4 because every journey is made better when shared with another traveler.

By Roger Barbee

Driving out of the cemetery, my wife and I passed the worker’s truck. Parked a respectable distance from the grave site we had just left, it was loaded with the equipment and supplies needed for its work:  Shovels, rakes, and folded, green pads that were designed to imitate grass. An attached trailer carried a small backhoe. Soon, after all the friends, family, loved ones, and funeral home employees had left, the workers would drive the truck with its load down the hill to finish the covering of a life. This grave was like all the others in the cemetery, just newer; but also different because it was Paul’s, one of The Greatest Generation.

In 1998 Tom Brokaw published The Greatest Generation, an examination of American’s lives who were born between WW I and WW II. Paul was born in 1926, not many years after the Spanish Flu and WW I, and just in time for the Great Depression. Later, after graduating from high school, he enlisted in the U.S. Army and entered WW II.

The Greatest Generation is called that because they endured the hardships of the Great Depression, then a world at war.  But the lessons from the Great Depression and the war are what helped form the character of Americans like Paul. During the Great Depression they learned the value of a strong work ethic, being frugal, and “making do.” During the war they fought, died, sacrificed, and joined forces to defeat an evil so that the world would be a better place. Yet their struggles did not make them bitter or resentful but caring and loving and appreciative of each other and a stable life. All of them, soldiers, ship builders returned home and carried on with their live.  Their fight against the evil threatening the world was just what they had to do.

Paul and Jean were the first people we met at FBC of Mooresville. On our first visit, they welcomed us and on the second visit Jean told us, “We’re so glad you returned.” That was over three years ago, but I still recall their kind words and impeccable manner and dress. However, before many Sundays, they stopped attending church for health reasons, but their imprint had been made on my wife and me.

These were my thoughts yesterday as I listened to the minister, sang the songs, and heard the shared memories of a son-in-law. The small, well-dressed man we knew from Sunday Service had helped establish a local church. He had led a full, vibrant life in his beloved community, and he was loved dearly by his family and friends.  We had met him late in his  life, but as I watched his grandsons tearfully carry his flag-draped casket from the hearse to the grave, I was reminded that while I had met Paul late in his life, I was still fortunate to have known him at all because, even in those waning days, he exhibited courage, loyalty, and sacrifice. His experiences in a depression and war had marked him; however,  the mark was not a stain but a badge of honor. Brokaw used the adjective greatest, and that is fine. However, other adjectives such as magnificent, extraordinary, or grand well-describe Paul and his generation. But the adjective is of no matter because Paul and his are The Great Generation.

I suppose that by the time we had arrived home from the service, the workmen had finished their task and Paul had, as King David wrote, “gone the way of the world.” But he and all his generation-the soldiers, the planters of victory gardens, the ship builders, the children who collected metal for the war cause, and more-are honored by those of us who still value honesty, loyalty, sacrifice, and duty to a just cause. They are not “suckers” or “losers” as some think, but lives lived for a common good. They made our world safer and better. We owe them to continue their work.

By Roger Barbee

A local writer shared a story recently about his first year of playing organized football. He writes how miserable his first game as a 7^th grader was and that the coach kept him after practice to make him do extra drills as punishment because he failed to successfully block an opponent. As if that were not enough, two teammates who played in the backfield were waiting for him and used their superior physical powers to demonstrate what it felt like when tackled by the opponent he kept missing to block. And finally, at the entrance of the locker room stood two hefty linemen to teach him one more lesson. However, the writer went on to explain how he used those experiences for life lessons on getting along with people and being a team player. I am glad he manages to gauge the experience as he does.

However, I see so much wrong with the tale he shared. In no words does he write of his coach or teammates taking the time to teach him how to correct what he was doing wrong. He was just plummeted for his mistakes in blocking. The coach and players seem to be first-class bullies in my opinion.

When I was a 10^th grader (high school was 10-12 grades), I so  wanted to play football. One hot, August practice of 1961 the coach had be line up to catch punts. The  first one that came  to me somehow landed in my arms and as the rumbling herd approached me I threw the ball to a coach. I was then moved to the sideline to watch. Later, as we were all taking showers, a senior named Dale yelled at me in a mocking tone, “There’s I don’t want the ball Barbee.” No soap or water could remove that stinging stain. Somehow I remained on the team only managing to hold blocking dummies during practices.

That winter I joined the wrestling team and was the 13^th member of a team of twelve varsity wrestlers. I wrestled some “preliminary” matches and won some but lost many. Twelve wrestlers received varsity letters; I got the experience.

But there was the baseball team in the spring. In tryouts I was in the batter’s box taking my swings to show the coach that I could hit. I  kept trying to hit the ball, but it kept being somewhere my bat was not. Then Jimmy the varsity catcher said, “Don’t try so hard.” What kid would not follow the words of a varsity player, but it was to no avail, and I was cut from the team.

The next year, my 11^th grade year, I knew my career as a football player was suspect and after one of the summer scrimmages I was one of a small group cut from the team. But an assistant coach, Bob Mauldin, told me as I was turning in my gear that he needed me on the wrestling team. Because of the Cuban Missile Crisis the year before he had been away on duty, but this year he was back. And he “needed me.”

Winter came and so did wrestling season. But by then I was madly in love with a  girl and at an early practice I told the team captain David that I was quitting the team to get a job for money to woo my new love. Like Coach Mauldin earlier that school year, David talked with me telling me how much the team needed me. Those words again!

The writer’s story last week  brought these memories back. My experience was not, fortunately, like his except for Dale, the older player who ridiculed me instead of helping me. I fear that too many older players are like Dale, but I am so glad that Jimmy the catcher, Coach Mauldin, and David our  team captain were kind. I did not play on the baseball team as I said, but I still hear Jimmy’s words of encouragement, not scorn. Coach Mauldin and David needed me, so I stayed  and as Robert Frost writes, “ And that has made all the difference.”

By Roger Barbee

                                                Prufrock on Landis Road

Driving along Landis Road to my mother’s funeral, I noticed the rich fields of recently planted corn and grasses. The young corn stood green and strong, and the grasses awaited their first cutting to be used for winter feed. A rich spring of new life and growth flanked the road as Mary Ann and I drove to the church. The juxtaposition of the emerging life and our destination reminded me of Hebrews 6:1-3.

At certain stages, we can’t wait to grow older. I imagine that every pre-teen anticipates the imagined magic of charging into the teen years. For other reasons, turning eighteen and twenty-one are wished for. But after those milestones, growing older is dreaded. We edge into the 30’s but turning forty is often seen much like a tolling of bells, and the decades after are viewed as a finality. Prufrock is so uncertain of these years that all he could muster is his questions of “Shall I…?” or “Do I dare…?”

The writer to the Hebrews tells us to leave the elementary teaching behind and “be borne onwards to full maturity.” (Barclay translation) But it seems to me that as a culture mostly claiming Christianity, we keep in the same elementary zones of our comfort. We keep plowing the same ground, not expanding our fields and perhaps killing what has sprouted beneath us. And I think our fear of changing and moving comes from our sense of  control over the “same old thing” and “the way it’s always been done”, or “things ain’t like they used to be.” That last one is often offered as a reason not to change or as a whine about a new situation or way. You know what? Things are not as they used to be because those words reflect our memory which is at best suspect and likely tainted by our biases. When a suggestion is made to change the tables and chairs in a room, firm stances are taken in opposition. We resist any change to our comfort zones, thus stifling any growth to maturity or perfection in our Christianity. As Clarence Jordan writes, “Fear is the polio of the soul which prevents us from walking by faith.”

Years ago when I turned sixty, a friend told me that feeling the years of the decade would not come until I was sixty-two or three. She was correct. When I turned sixty-three, I felt the years of being in that decade of life. However, since my accident at fifty-five, I have learned to appreciate the years and what they represent contrary to our secular culture which teaches us to fear what is constantly around us—death. Today is May 15, 2019, a fine spring day on Lake Norman. I see birds flying to nesting boxes to feed the young. Each trip to the box by a parent represents a death which occurs so that a life may grow. It is all a cycle that we have come to fear because of our false sense of control. Our culture convinces us that creams and such will help forestall ageing so much that corporations flourish. Wrinkles and grey are marks of defeat, not marks of growing towards maturity and perfection as Christians and citizens.

The writer to the Hebrews tells us how to grow and mature as Christians.  Robert Ruark in The Old Man and the Boy, a memoir full of secular wisdom, quotes his grandfather saying, “That’s why I like November. November is  a man past fifty who reckons he’ll live to be seventy or so, which is old enough for anybody—which means he’ll make it through November and December, with a better-than-average chance of seeing New Year’s.”

 As a seventy-three-year-old, I hope for a few more years like these I live now because I  feel that I have come to appreciate living a life of obedience and finally, after years of lost living, I am on a right path. I now understand the words of Karle Wilson Baker who writes in Let Me Grow Lovely these words:

“Let me grow lovely, growing old—

            So many fine things do:

Laces, and ivory, and gold,

And silks need not be new;

And there is healing in old trees,

Old streets a glamour hold;

Why may not I, as well as these,

Grow lovely, growing old?”

            Prufrock feared his coming middle age. Yet, as Christians we need not allow fear to be a polio that prevents our walk. Wrinkles and grey are marks of age, medals of well lived lives in His service.

By Roger Barbee

One Drop

            My drop, measured by inches, was short. I had fallen only about eighteen inches, so that was good. The bad was that I was sitting on the wet pavement of the parking lot of my building as heavy drops of  rain pelted everything in the dark, late night. I could not see my wheelchair because my sloppy transfer, instead of landing me in the seat,  had pushed it backwards and it now rested somewhere behind me.  The heavy, thick rain continued to drop in  a steady rhythm as I tried to think of a plan: Tired from a long day and too much alcohol, I  sat on the wet pavement that now carried a steady flow of water, drop after drop of rain adding to my self-imposed misery.  I tried to push the muddle from my brain and think of a way to regain my position in the driver’s seat, but all I managed was to become more soaked from my head to my legs.

            It was then that I saw him crossing the street. He approached me but no drop of rain touched him or his gleaming white shirt. He grew closer, and I noticed the contrast of his dark, brown hands with the bright, white cuffs of his shirt. It was then that I remembered him from Douglas Airport in Charlotte and how he had pushed me and my heavy bag up a carpeted ramp when I was having trouble navigating in a crowd. Now walking past me in the dark lot, he retrieved my wheelchair and placed it behind me. Those same brown hands now lifted me onto my soaked wheelchair seat. As I was putting my feet on the footrest of my wheelchair, I heard him say in the same voice from Charlotte, “You should take better care of yourself.”  Then he was gone like a fallen drop of rain.

            In Charlotte my heavy bag was about to drop from my lap as I tried to navigate a carpeted ramp in a rushing push of travelers. In the wet parking lot, my drop was again due to my excess and poor planning: Too much stuff in a too big bag, too much work, too much alcohol. But he came. Twice he rescued me from self-imposed trouble.

            He has not appeared since. Perhaps because I have heeded his words to take better care of myself or whatever, I have not seen him, but I know he is present, ready to save me from my next drop.