Roger Barbee

By Roger Barbee

Some years ago I led a men’s Sunday School class in Woodstock, VA. When we were studying Job, a member of the class shared an experience he had had during the week. He was a supervisor for a company that performed maintenance on I-81, and his crew and he were working on exit ramps. Tim explained that English was a second language for most of his crew, but some of the workers were better speakers of English, and he managed to communicate with them all in order to get the work done. One day during a morning break, one of the crew approached him and asked in an almost timid way. “We’ve been wondering, Mr. Tim, what religion you are, if you’ll tell us.” Tim explained that he had never discussed religion with his crew, but he told them what Christian religion he belonged.

Our class had a great discussion about Tim’s story and how, even though he had never proselytized to any member of his crew, they had sensed, by his words and deeds, that he was religious; they just didn’t know of what religion but were curious.

Many times through the years I have recalled Tim’s story and what it means for us  Christians. In Matthew 5-7 we are given the Sermon on the Mount and later in chapter 28 we are given the Great Commission. That seems to me to be quite a bit of directive on how to live if we are Christ followers. However, if these words prove difficult to follow, Edgay A. Guest states it all easily enough in his poem The Better Way:

I’d rather see a sermon than hear one any day;

I’d rather one should walk with me than merely show the way;

The eye’s a better pupil and more willing than the ear;

Fine counsel is confusing, but example’s always clear;

And the best of all the preachers are the men who  live their creeds;

For to see the good in action is what everybody needs.

I can soon learn how to do it if you’ll let me see it done.

I can watch your hands in action, but your tongue too fast may run;

And the lectures you deliver may be very wise and true,

But I’d rather get my lesson by observing what you do.

For I may misunderstand you and the high advice you give

But there’s no misunderstanding how you act and how you live.

The current political chatter from some elected officials who suggest that we adopt Christian Nationalism as our new way of doing things has caused me to once again recall Tim’s story. Take a moment and think about it: Language is somewhat of a barrier, but the crew and Tim overcome that issue to accomplish the necessary work. How? They do it because Tim followed the words of Jesus and Guest: Be kind, be patient, and show generosity. With those virtues present, language became secondary in order to accomplish complex tasks.

It seems to me that we don’t need Christian Nationalism or any other man-made creation to help us in our complicated lives. As a Christ follower I try to adhere to the words cited above in Matthew believing that that is the better way; but if not that, just follow those of Guest and watch wonderous things happen.

By Roger Barbee

Some years ago the high school wrestling team I was part of wanted to honor our coach, Bob Mauldin. With the help of his wife Donna and our spouses, we planned a surprise tribute for him, and about 80 old wrestlers and spouses attended. It was a success, and our beloved Coach was surprised—at being the main guest and by words admirable spoken about him after supper.

The spoken tributes for Coach Mauldin varied-some serious, others full of humor, but all centered on our coach and how he had influenced our lives as boys then later as men. But one talk stands out, and when I received word yesterday that Danny had died after battling cancer, I thought of him and what he said and did that night.

Mementos are usually privately kept, stored away for reasons known only to the person placing the small item away in a secret place. Even if the memento is a flower or clover leaf placed between the pages of a book, it serves a role in someone’s life. As J. L. Carr observes in his novel of memory and lost love, A Month in the Country, someone in years hence may purchase a book at a sale and later find a dried Sara van Fleet rose carefully placed between two pages. But no wonder, most folks put seemingly insignificant things in private places as reminders of someone or a time or both which was special but is now past.  But the memory of the importance signified by the memento lives as long as the memorizer.

As I recall, Danny was the  last speaker at Coach’s tribute. Watching him walk to the microphone, I noticed that he was still rather small, like the wiry wrestler he was those years ago.

He then shared how when he was a soldier serving in Vietnam he received a letter from Coach. Danny did not share with us the contents of his letter, but he did explain the importance of Coach’s words to him, a young man far away fighting in a brutal war. Coach’s words were a salve to his soul Danny said, and with that Danny reached into his hip pocket, pulled out the letter, and then thanked Coach for writing him and said something like, “It’s your letter, Coach, and now I give it back to you.”

            Most mementos are private, but at Coach’s dinner we all were witnesses to a memento of one of us, shared publicly, who is now dead as is the writer of the letter. While we do not know the contents of the letter, we were given the privilege of acknowledging a gift to one of us from our Coach  Mauldin. The white, small, and crumpled envelope held a message to Danny, one that he had cherished, carried,  and held close for years. His  public sharing of it told much, but most of all it was a witness of what we all do—hold seemingly insignificant things like cloverleafs or flowers dear to our selves. Danny shared his beloved memento of Coach with us.

            I think Danny saw his talk as a thank you to Coach, which it was, but it  also spoke of holding close what is dear, no matter from whom or from what circumstance–even if only a Sara van Fleet rose between the pages of a book.

By Roger Barbee

In the first round of the 1925 U.S. Open of golf, Bob Jones prepared to hit a wedge shot out of the 11^th hole rough. He inadvertently touched his ball with the wedge, causing it to move slightly. He penalized himself one stroke. The officials could not verify that the ball had moved, so they left the one-stroke penalty assessment up to Jones, who was adamant that his ball moved. A one-stroke penalty that no one, but Jones, had witnessed. After regulation play Jones was tied with Willie Macfarlane, and he lost the 18-hole playoff to him. When folks congratulated Jones on his honesty he replied, “You might as well congratulate me for not robbing a bank.”

In today’s climate, I think of Jones often because I read or hear of so many people wanting to glorify a person for doing his or her job, to perform the job as is in the job description. No person should be given extra applause for doing what is required or needed. That is why he or she is there in the position—to perform by overcoming obstacles and difficulties encountered in doing the prescribed work,

As a wrestling coach, I reminded my charges that iron sharpens iron, a paraphrase of Proverbs 27:17. Those three words were printed on the back of our team tee-shirts. The wrestlers understood that the best way to help a teammate become a better person and wrestler was to be a hard surface on which to sharpen. In so doing, both became better.

All cultures need heroes, folks to admire for their integrity and courage and grit. However, let’s not set the bar too low. After all, if we do we might as well congratulate someone for not robbing a bank.

By Roger Barbee

As my wife Mary Ann and  I watched the black mass move in from the northwest, we realized that the meteorologist had been correct: A large storm brewed in the eerie late afternoon quiet of a hot summer day. The black mass continued to roll over the land and the lake and soon its wind came. Each sudden and violent gust removed leaves and limbs from trees, made big sways in the tall pines, and caused the wind chimes to rattle. At times a lull came as if the wind was resting before the next blast of fierce wind. We watched, hoping that rain would come with the dark wind to bathe our dry garden. We watched and turned on lamps earlier than usual because the coming storm had  shut daylight out with its roiling mass. But soon enough our hope was fulfilled, and we saw the rain, then smelled its richness as it covered trees, shrubs, flowers, every thing.

This is my fourth week of another storm in my life. After twenty careful years of life in my wheelchair, I developed a pressure sore because, very ill with COVID, I sat in the same position on a sofa for over a day. Boom! A massive pressure sore on my tailbone and buttocks. A  pressure sore, like so many situations in life, is easy to get into, but difficult to get out of. And, like some of those things in life that, as Dr. Clarence Jordan writes, “tangle us all up”, they can be deadly. However, Mary Ann and I have treated it with diligence and respect: For the past four weeks I have been in bed on one side or the other except for three short sitting breaks each day. The sore heals, but slowly, through medical care and a releasing of any pressure.

After we ate dinner last night, we watched the storm and smelled the rain’s fresh scent. Leaving lamps lit, we went to our bed to watch a movie, a ritual begun to pass the bedtime caused by the pressure sore. During the movie the storm raged-its rain, thunder, and lightening reminding us of its presence. But after we had watched the movie and were letting the dog out, we noticed a red-orange glow in our front yard. Looking westward, we saw the sky aflame as if it and the lake were on fire. We watched nature’s show, realizing our insignificance compared to what we were seeing. Then, as the bright sky faded into the dark of night, we went to sleep. The next morning we received a photograph from our neighbor Doug in which he shared a photograph he had taken while we were watching the western sky: A double rainbow suspended in the same type of red-orange glow, but this one was  in the east sky, over our split of the lake. We had seen one but not the other.

There are many epic stories of floods that destroy ancient civilizations. However, my favorite is the story of a solitary man who built a boat while being ridiculed by his peers. However, after the flood destroyed all but what  he had taken on his boat, he is made a covenant. And as a reminder of that promise, a “bow” will appear in the clouds.

Storms bring good and bad, but I like to remember that after storms come “bows” and that is a promise in which I have faith. Like the double rainbow Doug photographed, we have been promised, and that will not be broken

By Roger Barbee

For over twenty years I have lived life with my wheelchair. I was 55 when I had the  accident that made me a T 5-6 paraplegic, and as expected and required, over those years I have adapted. Adaption is easier written than done, but with the help of family, friends, and medical professionals, I have matured into my life from a wheelchair. However, I would be dishonest if I do not confess to certain feelings—such as pining for the days when I raced everything from 400 meters to the marathon; or the ability to bound up a flight of stairs two at a time;  or my day-long hikes on The Ridgeway in England each July; or taking a walk with a loved one on a cool evening. While I learned to manage the new life, I did miss aspects of my old one and at times, I admit, to wallowing in a self-dug pity-pit. But I always remembered the words of Tom Oberdorfer, my counselor, “It’s alright to go there, just don’t stay.” So, whenever I fell into the pit I always crawled out-usually after a good wallow. However, a recent happening has changed my view of my life and what I can’t do.

I got COVID! I had had two shots and one booster, but the horrific infection made me extremely ill for three days. To breathe I sat on a sofa for over 24 hours with my feet propped in my wheelchair. When I was finally able to transfer out of the sofa onto my wheelchair, I had developed my first pressure sore-right on my tailbone. Still feeling the issues from COVID, I went to the ER to have the sore examined. Home again, my wife and I had directions and the name of a local wound-care doctor. Two weeks and two appointments later and after great care by my wife Mary Ann, the sore has lessened a bit. But like all pressure sores, it will only be cured by not applying pressure in any way, which is simple in one aspect–don’t sit. Yet how to do that when a wheelchair is my only way to move? The remedy is to lay in bed to reduce the pressure on the sore. A pile of good books and bandages and butt cream make the hours and curing go faster and better; but it represents lost hours of living as I knew them-wheeling about, living  life in my wheelchair. The pit Tom warned me of looms larger and deadlier.

However, I have concentrated on the things that I used to be able to do—all during my last twenty years. I remember how good it felt to vacuum the downstairs and screen porch and to pick-up pines cones in the front yard and to ride my stationary bike and to and to and to.

Like all good lessons learned by living, my appreciation of the many things I did just a few weeks ago is being  re-taught to me by this experience. I knew that my life was rich and full these past twenty years, but not being able to do those things just now has made them more attractive and appreciated. They become like the old English proverb that describes stolen fruit as the sweetest. There may some wisdom in that proverb because once on the Thames Towpath my friend Druin and I stopped our run to pick delicious cherries from a garden tree overhanging the towpath. We stood stuffing ourselves until a stern voice on the garden side of the wall reminded us that those were not our cherries. Correct. But they were so good.

Soon the cancelled life I led so brief a time ago will return, and I shall celebrate it by vacuuming the downstairs and picking up pinecones. Until then, however, I will read and appreciate my good care.

By Roger Barbee

            “… for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets, that they may be seen of men….But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret;…” Matthew 6:5,6 (KJV)

            There are news reports of a move in South Carolina by some state representatives to require prayer to be held in South Carolina public school classrooms. I don’t question the sincerity of any lawmaker who wishes that prayer was allowed in public schools. However, I do question that lawmaker’s knowledge of federal laws and theology and education.

            First, the easy one: The Supreme Court, for better or worse, deemed required prayer in public schools unconstitutional. Settled.

            Secondly, the verses I quote from the book of Matthew are the words of Jesus when he rebuked religious ostentation in His Sermon on the Mount. We are instructed not to make our prayers a performance for others, but a talk with His Father, a private conversation. If prayer was required in public schools, would the South Carolina government write a prayer to be used in each classroom? Would the government trust each teacher to say her own prayer? Would the prayer be required to be Christian? Could a student lead a classroom prayer? But, all these questions are already answered: any student or teacher can pray in a classroom anytime. If a student is worried about an approaching test, he can pray. Any teacher faced with an unruly student can pray to her god for guidance. Prayer, of a private and non-required kind, is allowed and practiced in classrooms all over America. Each day. Often. To require a prayer of any religion would make that type of prayer rote and trivial. Sincere prayer is private and heart-felt, not required. Honest prayer, whether of the Christian faith or some other religion, is best taught at home, where deep instruction can be given by the parents.

            And last, our teachers have more than enough to do. They do not need one more interruption to the classrooms. They are teachers of math, English, history, physics, and so many other disciplines. To burden them with one more item would not help them or our children.

By Roger Barbee

In 1955 when the body of 14-year-old Emmett Till arrived home to Chicago, the only thing that identified him was a ring. His swollen body was missing teeth, an ear was severed, and an eye hung out after he had been kidnapped, tortured, shot, wrapped in barbed wire attached to a heavy fan, and dumped into the Tallahatchie River by two white men in Money, Mississippi.

His mother, Ms. Elizabeth Till-Mobley, saw the body of her only child and made a courageous decision. She told the mortician to leave her son as he was and insisted on an open casket so that all the world could see the horrific acts committed against her son by white men.

            Now, here we are all these years later and more children and their teachers have again been brutally murdered. Young, small, precious bodies in Robb Elementary School in Uvalde, Texas so mangled by bullets that DNA is needed to identify some of them. Mutilated like the body of Emmett Till.

            The photographs we see of the victims are ones made in happier times like when a 10-year-old holds a certificate for making his school’s honor roll. Or a photograph of a smiling teacher likely taken for the school web page. Happy faces. Clean clothes. Life at its fullest. No photographs of mutilated bodies, body parts separated from their body, blood, and gore.

            Open caskets! Awful and even grotesque when they show the result of the carnage caused  against a 75-pound body by an AR-15 rifle.

            Perhaps it is time for another brave decision such as the one made by Ms. Till.

By Roger Barbee

For five years we have endured the bumps in our driveway caused by,what we thought, were pine tree roots growing beneath the asphalt. One bump in particular was “admired” by neighbors and us as we watched it expand and begin to open at its top. It had expanded so much that, if I was not careful when driving in, my van’s frame would rub against it. However, yesterday the old driveway was removed by a skilled man using a Bobcat, and I eagerly asked him about what I suspected was a massive knot of pine tree roots heaving the asphalt. He said, “I didn’t have a bucket’s worth of roots. I’ve seen that before,” he continued, “when some little roots cause a lot of pressure in clay dirt where water collects. It’s the mix of water and clay that pushes up caused by a small root growing. Ain’t that something. Not even a bucket’s worth.”

Since that conversation with the Bobcat operator, I’ve been thinking about all the years my wife and I had adjusted to the bumps in our driveway, and how we even began referring to them as our speed bumps. We warned visitors about them because they were so large, and when we contracted for the new driveway, we hoped that the excavation did not kill any of our beloved pine trees by removing their roots. Yesterday’s conversation with the Bobcat operator calmed that worry, but the root’s reminded me of what I had known but forgotten.

The roots are a metaphor for evil. While the ones beneath the heaved-up driveway were smaller than anticipated, they had pressured the wet clay which in turn pushed against the asphalt, causing our speed bumps. They, like evil, had done their work: Slow and steady growth, often hidden from view, but persistently working to cause upheaval and damage in our lives.

By Roger Barbee

 Near my stationary bike is a bird box which is fastened to one of the 42 pines trees in our front yard. In years past the nesting box has been occupied by titmice, but this year a brown-headed nuthatch pair claimed it. The small birds are busy with their brood, and I marvel as I watch the parents come and go with morsels in their beaks. As I ride for my morning workout, I watch them and listen as they call to each other.

Yet the front yard with its many tall pine trees is not all life. After last weekend’s storm, I have found five robin hatchlings under various trees that had been blown out of their nests high in the pines. This is a yearly result of spring storms, but even after my fifth season of finding small bodies on the ground, it still saddens me. However, during such times I find that the words of Qoheleth ease the sorrow: “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.”

Riding and watching the nuthatches feed their hatchings, I see a robin fly into a tree under which I found one small robin body. Curiously I watch it and  try to locate its nest high in the pine tree, but I lose sight of it in the green needles. But wait, there is more life on the ground under the same tree.

A red-bellied woodpecker attacks the ground. It pecks furiously and tuffs of dirt arch into the air to land nearby. The searcher stands in one place and pecks, then hops to another spot and pecks again and again. It assaults the ground, puffs of dirt fly about, and I resolve to later inspect that postage stamp of yard under a pine tree. But as suddenly as it appeared the woodpecker leaves to search for some morsel in other earth or dead wood.

Robins. Woodpeckers. Brown-headed nuthatches. So much living wrapped in the sweet, spring fragrance of the Ligustrum across our road. From its topmost branches a mockingbird proves Atticus Finch correct, and during my morning workout I am privileged to observe so much life in the pine forest we call our front yard.

By Roger Barbee

Take a moment and consider these stress-causing issues: Russia’s invasion of Ukraine; The Supreme Court leak; Abortion; Political primaries for everything from the United States Senate to county commissioner; Hunter Biden; COVID variants; A seasoned deputy aiding a criminal to escape; Personal problems that affect us all; and feel free to add to my list.

Stress! We live in a world where we are constantly told by headlines “What you need to know.” I don’t know about you, but I resent that statement and avoid reading anything in a newspaper that professes to know what I need to know. The constant clatter of print and talking head news confirms that William A. Percy was correct.

Recently I re-read his autobiography Lanterns on the Levee. While I take issue with certain parts of his story (such as his racist paternalism), his writing is exquisite and a joy to read as it is chock-full of literary allusions. Published in 1941, it is dated in a way, but like all good literature, it carries a message for us these 80 years later. For instance, in writing about his years at Harvard Law school, he tells how students during the early years of the 20^th century were restricted in having parties and social evenings. Thus, he writes, “Our chief dissipation was conversation.”  Each night at eleven after studying was finished, a coffee percolator was started in someone’s room and a night of superior talk about various topics was begun. However, Percy writes, “I wonder if this most civilized form of entertainment is fated for extinction by man’s effective mental opiate, the radio?” (italics mine)

Our world, it seems to me, is full of mental opiates: If a television is not blaring so called news that we must know, a machine pipes in unwanted music in public spaces such as airports. Many runners and walkers have the white plugs in their ears that carry music or other clatter directly to their brain. It is all, as someone observed, “A clattering of cymbals.”

Ours is not the first to have problems of a plague, wars, famine, and more. Yet, ours is the first to be able to watch these monsters as they consume us. Instead of taking months for  news to cross the Atlantic it arrives via social media immediately. That marvel causes stress like has never existed. Instead of reading about a death weeks later, we see it happen on a screen as it is played over and over. Stressful for sure, and that stress takes a toll on individuals and cultures. But what to do?

Unplug! Percy and other sages have warned us. Our parents knew of and told us of the dangers of hearing too much. Unplug from the mental opiate machines at least for a while. Stop the noise whether it be something we need to know, a game of snooker or football, a realism show that is likely pre-programed, and more. Stop the noise and sit under a tree or on a bank of a creek or anywhere that has as its “noise” the sound of nature. Let the wind going thorough a tree tell you about its trip to you or hear a bird announce its news or just sit and give yourself permission to not know what is happening in the secular world. Sit with a neighbor and hear about his or her joys. Converse with nature and the dear ones in your life.

Unplug! Even Wordsworth told us that “The world is too much with us; late and soon,”

In the end there is little that we need to know about the secular world for it, too, will pass. But we need to take care of each other and have stimulating, common discussions. After all, we were told to be good stewards of our world, and that includes each other, not just the trees, birds, and such.