Two For One Cuts Both Ways

I will not be late, I will not be late, I will not be...

Riding the train to work is the next best thing to working from home.  Both options are far superior to driving myself to work. A key difference between commuting by train and not commuting at all is that trains run on time regardless of how prompt I am.  If I am five minutes behind schedule logging in to my PC from home, no big.  If I am five minutes late to the train station, well, catch the next train, buddy.  For those of you who are always on time for everything, please move along as you may not understand the rest of what I am revealing here.

I intensely dislike just standing, Standing, STANDING at the platform waiting for the Coaster.  Consequently, I afflict my dear wife by cutting it a ‘bit too fine’ every morning that she drops me off.  I have found that telling her I’m in no hurry to get to work rarely helps.  This has been going on for years, commencing precisely the next day after I determined it took exactly 7 minutes and 47 seconds to drive from our house to the Coaster Station under optimal conditions.  Allowing an extra 53 seconds for non-cooperative traffic lights, I am typically seated in the car in our garage just under 9 minutes before the train is scheduled to arrive at the station four miles away.

True confession, in the decade I have been riding, I have missed the train a time or two.  But I have redeemed uncountable hours over that same span, surely enough to take a vacation.  Which is a great idea now that summer is upon us.

One morning this past week, the traffic lights were in a foul mood.  We were late.  I hopped out of the car as the whistle drifted down the tracks and the crossing signals began to clang.  I dashed for the ticket machine and frantically went through the “push-any-button, push-round-trip-button, push-destination-button, push-ticket-type, push-payment-type, jam-in-the-credit-card, push-‘No I Do Not Want A Receipt’-button” ritual while the train screeched to a stop behind me.  

Then, like a Las Vegas jackpot, the machine spit out not one, but two tickets.  Without taking time to look, I grabbed both tickets and, with a mighty leap, cleared the nearest train doors as they were closing, yanked my backpack through what was at that moment a 2-inch opening.  O.K.,  I made that last part up.

Catching my breath, I waved at my lovely taxi driver as the train pulled out, then looked to see that I had one regular ticket and one ‘senior’ ticket.  My first thought was that North County Transit District was giving me a preview of the new, lower rates I would soon enjoy when I turned 55.  But then, I realized I had purchased two tickets for the one of me riding the train.  One ride for the price of two.  I must have hit an extra button in my panic to get on the train.  For a miser such as I, that was a painful thought.

Notice, there are TWO.
Admit it.  You want one.

This little scenario came to mind two days later when I met a friend at Starbucks for breakfast.  I ordered my Venti Caramel Macchiato with a classic Sausage & Cheddar Breakfast Sandwich.  We were finished eating and well into solving the world’s problems (as manly men always do at breakfast), when one of the staff said, “sausage cheddar sandwich for Val” and plop a bagged item down on the counter.  My friend and I looked at each other.  Could there be two Val’s at Starbucks that morning who both shared an affection for the Starbucks version of an Egg McMuffin?  We thought not, but I waited a bit just to be sure.  Five minutes later, it was clear that I was the intended recipient of a second sandwich.  

Reluctantly, I went up to the counter and let the barista know that I had, indeed, already eaten my breakfast and that this was a duplicate.  As Starbucks had no use for it, they generously bestowed the second sandwich on me, which I later consumed at lunch.  In this instance, I experienced a true, two-for-the-price-of-one deal.  For a miser such as I, that was a happy event.

Later, I pondered what grander meaning this odd coincidence might have for my miserly self, other than to be less concerned with a few dollars here or there.  What occurred to me is that people make mistakes.  At home, at work, out on the town.  Sometimes I do, sometimes someone else does.  And if I can learn to be gracious about the little mistakes (mine or someone else’s), then perhaps I will be more gracious with the bigger ones.

An Unexpected Prize

I had three sets of friends as a child: at school, in the trailer park, at church.  Their paths rarely crossed.  I saw my church friends on Sundays and Wednesday nights, school friends at school, neighborhood friends after school during the week and on Saturdays.

Part of this was due to the odd coincidence that both my neighborhood and church friends were at least a few months younger than I was, so ended up in a different school grade, resulting in different classes and sometimes different schools entirely.  The other cause of this segregation was intentional.  Oh, I knew I was supposed to evangelize my non-churched friends and I did invite them once or twice to special events such as Vacation Bible School.  But, I could never picture my friends from school or in the trailer park really understanding church, at least as I experienced it.  Maybe I sold them short, maybe I was a coward, maybe I knew I would be mortified if my school friends ever found out exactly what went on at that Pentecostal church.

Still, I know that the better parts of my character were formed largely by those faithful servants in that little church.  As a child, I was oblivious to any church politics that I encountered later as a teen and adult.  I just saw grown ups who were on their way to heaven and who were doing their best to bring me along, too.

One such saint taught the Junior Boys Sunday School class.  Junior Boys, as defined by the Assemblies of God Gospel Publishing House curriculum, were in 5th and 6th grade.  There was, no doubt, a Junior Girls class, too.  Maybe we even shared the same curriculum.  This was before ‘Tweens’ or ‘Preteens’ were invented.  We were ten to twelve years old, eager for mischief, easily bored.  Our core group of boys had been in church together for a few years, so we knew the Bible stories and the Sunday School drill: be on time, bring your Bible, recite that week’s scripture verse from memory.  So, by the time Sister Smithson got to us, we had worn out a couple of well-intentioned volunteers with our energetic antics.  

Yes, we called her Sister Smithson.  That was how adults were addressed in church in those days.  The men were Brothers and the women were Sisters, though kids were still called by their first name.  It gave a certain family atmosphere to church that I miss.

In any case, Sister Smithson had some advantages that the other teachers lacked.  First, she was the mother of one of our cohort.  “Ah, man, it’s your mom!”  That let the air out of one of our hot air balloons immediately.  Second, she had a certain quiet dignity that evoked respect from this disrespectful group of boys.  Sister Smithson was, in whatever vague understanding I had of the term, a lady.  Soft-spoken, tastefully dressed, patient.  Finally, she somehow knew the way to a boy’s heart: Contests, with prizes.  Say what you will about bribing children to learn, it works.  

One such contest involved cars.  Although her son was never as much a fan of Hot Wheels as I and some of the other boys were, Sister Smithson designed a racing contest.  She drew a simple oval race track on a piece of poster board.  The track was divided into segments, perhaps one for each week of the Sunday School quarter.  Then, she had each of us bring a picture of a car from a newspaper or magazine.  We cut the cars out and glued them onto a piece of cardboard.  There was much conjecture about whose car was fastest as she pinned each one to the starting line.  The prize was a large candy bar and a small amount of cash.  We were off and running.

As the weeks went on, the results were much like any race.  There were leaders, stragglers and middlers.  If you missed a week, you lost a lot of momentum.  Sort of like a botched pit stop.  You could make up the memory verse, but not much else.  As we neared the finish, there were two or three of us vying for the checkered flag.  Blessed with a good memory and a mother who made sure I was in church unless I was close to death, I was a competitive Sunday School racer.  But a strange thing happened on the way to victory circle.  I don’t recall whose car crossed the finish line first and who consequently ended up with the loot.  It might have been me.  But what I do remember was that over the weeks of striving for that prize what became more important to me than winning that contest was being in Sister Smithson’s good graces.  Not that I was afraid of getting into trouble for doing something wrong.  Instead, I learned to value seeing Sister Smithson’s smile when I had done something right.  And that is a prize I carry with me to this day.

Penny For My Thought?

In God We Trust,
cuz the money ain't worth nuthin!

I was reminded of one of my favorite books while out jogging yesterday morning.  In the glow of the
street lamp, I caught a glimpse of a shiny, new penny.  In less than a stride, in much shorter time than it takes to write this, I thought: "Should I stop to pick it up?  No, it's not worth it.  It's just a hunk of zinc pretending to be copper.  A penny can't buy anything anymore."  So, I left it there.

When I was a kid, pocket change was non-existent.  Mom had no money to spare and I was clueless about how to earn my own.  So, I learned to have a sharp eye for any coins that might be in my path when I was out and about, a habit I carry to this day.  A penny could buy a piece of candy, any larger coin was a treasure.  I can remember distinctly walking back to class from lunch break one day in elementary school and spotting a nickel.  A whole nickel!  Thoughts of what I could do with this small fortune began to dance in my head as I bent down to get it.  But my friend that was with me had seen it as well and swooped down and scooped it before I could.  With all the aggrieved unreasonableness of a 10 year old I said, "Hey, give it to me!  I saw it first."  To which my friend replied, "But I GOT it first."  (Possession is 9/10's of the law...) How I knew I had seen it first is a mystery.  But to this day I am sure I did.  This 'eye for money' served me well many years later.  My wife and I were out with the youth pastor and a crowd of teenagers from our church on a 16 mile walk-a-thon to raise funds for some worthy cause.  I had made it to the end once already and hitched a ride back to help encourage some of the less ambitious (including Mrs. Robidoux).  As we trudged along the side of the road, my eye caught a glimpse of a faded, crumpled green-and-white piece of paper.  Again, my mind raced through the options of "No, it really can't be money.  Think of all the people who have already been by here.  Paper money can't survive being outside very long.  If I pick up a piece of trash I will look stupid."  Still, I stooped down, picked it up, and unfolded a $100 bill.  After donating a portion to the worthy cause, my wife and I had an excellent dinner out that night.  Which, in my mind, more than made up for the nickel I missed out on back in elementary school.

Oh, the book?  Whatever Happened To Penny Candy by Richard Maybury.  It is required reading for our girls when they hit high school.  The author does a great job of explaining why we have a lot more pennies and dollars floating around our economy than a generation ago and why those dollars won't buy nearly as much.  Two personal examples: I grew up with penny candy vending machines that now require a quarter.  The home that cost my father-in-law under $30,000 some 40 years ago would cost ten times that now.  While a penny saved may still be a penny earned (not exactly what Ben Franklin said), my time is worth a lot more than that penny.

I Would Do It For You, Wouldn't I?

One of the benefits of young adults in the house is that I am exposed to more, MUCH more, contemporary music than I would be if we had an empty nest like other 50-somethings.  Sometimes it feels like psy-ops aimed at subverting the home life my wife and I have tried to establish.  But for the sake of this discussion, I am considering it a benefit.  I get a window into the soul of the next generation and I hear some pretty darn good music that I would miss out on otherwise.  One such song is Gone, Gone, Gone by Phillip Phillips.  It is a pledge of undying love with loads of examples of the lengths the singer will go to prove his love.  I am not a music stylist, but I know what I like in 'pop' music and it tends towards the simple, acoustic, bluesy.  Like this song.  If you want a true musical review, go here.  After listening to Gone, Gone, Gone a few times (well, more than a few times - thank you, dear daughter), I picked up on a subtle truth in the lyrics that struck me.  It may have just been a device used by the writers to bridge between the verses and the chorus, but I noticed something:

Give me reasons to believe
 That you would do the same for me.
 And I would do it for you, for you.

I surrender honestly.
 You've always done the same for me.
 So I would do it for you, for you.

Give me reasons to believe... AND I would do it for you.
You've always done the same for me... SO I would it do it for you.

I checked with my household grammar wizards to confirm that AND and SO are acting as conditional conjunctions.  What the song is communicating then is what I experience.  I want to love those who are dear to me passionately, unreservedly, sacrificially.  But, in spite of my ideals, which are wrapped up in a Christian ethic of love modeled by Jesus, I need something back.  I have a strong martyr complex and can give for a long time with no kudos or reciprocation.  Not forever.  And I have never had to.  I am crazy spoiled with love.  I have never faced what some know all to well: a love that started out with mutual joy and passion that somewhere, somehow became a one-way street to a soul-draining loneliness of endless giving until the well was dry.

Then it occurred to me.  Am I the one holding back, sucking the life out of others without giving them even a sustaining crumb of affection?  In the limits of my human condition, I struggle to express affection.  Today, I want to be awake to the hunger and give back what I have been given.

You've always done the same for me.
So I would do it for you.

Not Just Another Morning Jog

It is a lonely, quiet time of morning that I run, shortly after the 4 am alarm jerks me awake.  Mostly, I run in solitude, engrossed in thought.  So much so that I can cover miles and not quite remember how I got that far.  Over the past several months, though, I have seen another regular jogger once or sometimes twice a week.  This jogger is a young woman.  At least younger than me.  In the pre-dawn dark, it is hard to tell age, but I can safely assume that a majority of the jogging populace is younger than I and how someone runs says something about their age.  My stride certainly doesn't have the bounce it did 20 years ago.

This young woman comes from the opposite direction, which explains why I see her in the first place.  The likelihood of my overtaking or being overtaken by someone running the same direction is quite remote.  Normally, I see her coming with enough warning to step off the sidewalk and into the bike lane, if I am not there already.  My rule of the road when I jog is to yield to oncoming traffic.  There have been a couple of instances where we nearly plowed into each other, once coming around the corner of the intersection and once because I was off somewhere else mentally and not paying attention.  As we pass, we usually wave and say an abbreviated, slightly winded “G’morning” in the way joggers do.

So, when I saw her coming yesterday morning, I expected the same ritual.  I moved off the sidewalk, but as I approached, she stopped under a street-light and asked a question as I passed by.
"Have you seen the homeless guy?"
I stopped a couple of paces away.  Her hair was tied back in a pony tail and I could see the worry in her face.
"No, I haven't seen anyone."
In the course of a brief conversation, I learned that her route takes her past the intersection where I get on that particular street.  Apparently there is a homeless man who camps out near an office complex along the way.  And that scares her.  Rather, he scares her.  I didn't know what else to say except that I was sorry since I couldn't give her any assurances about the homeless man.  Then we jogged away from each other on our regular routes.

So I finished my run with unexpected thoughts tumbling in my head.    I am just as much a stranger to this young jogger as the homeless man.  Yet, she stopped, spoke to me, and shared her concern.   Somehow, just being polite on the jogging path over the course of a few months builds trust.  She didn't have to stop, she didn't have to say anything.  But she did.  Her fear of one stranger motivated her to speak to another stranger.  As a man, I run alone in the dark with little thought for my safety.  I do not know the fear that she experiences when running alone, so I shot up a prayer for her safety.  Now, I will be wondering how she is until I see her again.  Finally, I was reminded again of the grace that has made my life so different from the “homeless guy” a few blocks away; the grace that lets me enjoy my cozy little home with my delightful family, so different these tattered wanderers who carry their homes in a cart or backpack.  We breathe the same air, we walk the same streets.  Yet one of us is a cause for fear, the other a token of safety.  I have so much to be thankful for.

Imperatives On The Airplane

While sitting in the long metal tube six miles above the planet on my return flight home from New Jersey last week, I ran out of things to read.  More precisely, I had gone through all the reading material I had brought with me (Escape From Camp 14 and Rose Under Fire).  My active mind began casting about for something to feed on.  I soon realized there are a lot of instructions stuck in various locations on aircraft.

Warning: stand clear of hazard areas while engine is running.

Fortunately, as I had a wing seat, I was neither in front of nor behind the engine.  Not sure what that said about the safety of the other passengers.  But, as long as they don't step outside during flight, they will avoid this potential catastrophe (*Incredibles*).

Fasten seat belt while seated

Presumably this is for those people who try to fasten their seat belt while standing clear of the hazard areas.  Who else would try to fasten a seat belt while NOT seated?

Earn Miles with Biscoff (the crunchy in-flight snack cookie)

Okay.  Suppose someone actually took this seriously.  Imagine the dialogue between the flight attendant and the passenger:

"Sir, I just gave you 10 packages of cookies!"

"I know, but I just need 32 more to earn my next free flight," mumbled Mr. Jones as he stuffed another cookie in his mouth and another wrapper into the seat pocket in front of him.

THE LAVATORY (a.k.a. - restroom)

The MOST IMPORTANT THING is No Smoking in Lavatory as evidenced by the large type and bright red 'no cigarettes' symbol.  Because, cigarette smoke must smell worse than, well, that other stuff you smell in the lavatory.

Why only say 'Please' when telling someone to lock the door?  I mean, is it optional?  I don't want anyone busting in on me while I'm in there, that is for certain.

Open door slowly as there is a crowd waiting outside by the time you are halfway into the flight and some of them are doing the dance and if you bump them there might be an accident.

Latch door closed during taxi, takeoff and landing.  What are you doing in there during takeoff and landing in the first place?  In case you hadn't noticed, there is no seat belt in the lavatory.  

Do not drop bathroom tissue on the floor.  Oh, you didn't see that sign?  That's because the airline is too embarrassed to mention the state of the lavatory after 2 hours in the air.  For any number of reasons I do not want to pick that tissue up for you, nor do I want it stuck to my shoes when I trudge back to my seat where I will stand clear of the hazards, belt myself in, and earn more miles eating cookies.

A Bike and a Prayer

I discovered bikes in 1965.  A kid on foot could not hang out for long with kids on bikes.  All it would take was for one of the bike crowd to say "let's go" and off they would pedal to the music of clanking bike chains and tires humming, leaving the more earth-bound far behind.  There was no point in trying to follow, even if the destination was close by.  By the time I or any of my pedestrian cohorts arrived, the bikers would have already drained their delight from the new location and were ready to move on.  A bike meant spontaneity.  Being on foot required planning and forethought.  Any destination took a long time to reach and you still had the walk back.  And by that time you were hungry as all boys are every two hours.

I need one of those...

What was the proportion of mounted to walking kids?  I didn’t know.  All I knew was that enough kids were cruising around the trailer park on bicycles for me to see that I was an exception.  Not in a good way.  I was exceptionally deprived.  I dearly wanted a bike.  No, I needed a bike.  Not just any bike, but a particular one I had found in the ubiquitous Sears catalog.

My exposure to advertising was limited.  We had no TV, did not subscribe to a newspaper and the few radio ads I heard were forgettable.  Besides seeing what other kids had, my primary source for information about STUFF was the Sears ‘Big Book’ catalog.  It came out twice a year and was as thick as the telephone book.  It had everything a person could want.  Clothes, tools, hardware, appliances, electronics, furniture.  If it wasn't in the Sears catalog, you probably didn't need it.

In what seemed just short of magic, Mom  would make a phone call, then goods would arrive at our local Sears store for pickup not many days later.  Sears published smaller seasonal or sale catalogs from time-to-time as well.  Each catalog was no doubt carefully planned for release by a huddle of marketing types in Sears headquarters.  My favorite catalog was the much-anticipated Christmas 'Wish Book' that showed up shortly after Halloween, loaded with toys for children of all ages.  I would sit for hours thumbing through the pages, imagining a paradise with rooms full of toys for my endless pleasure, until the reality of our trailer park life popped my bubble.

Those were the days of wheelie bicycles, a tribute to the motorcycle culture of the 1960's.  Banana seats and high handlebars were in vogue.  'My' bike was painted a glittering gold color.  I saw freedom and speed and power in that bike, reminiscent of a big jungle cat. That bicycle became the focus of all my longings.

"Lil Tiger"

And so I began to pray.  We had been in church for some time by then and I had heard enough preaching and testimony about prayer that it seemed worth a shot.  So every night I would earnestly pray for that bike to become my own with the faith of a 6-year-old.  Then, one day, very near to my birthday, a large box arrived from Sears.  Barely daring to hope, I started an interesting mental game some people play when it appears likely that their dreams will be realized.  I desperately wanted the bike, and was almost certain that it was lurking in that box.  But, I also tried to convince myself it could be any number of other things to hedge against disappointment.  Soon, though, the box was opened and in a nearly-assembled state, there was ‘Lil Tiger’.  I have purchased or been given countless things in the years since.  None have given me nearly the thrill of seeing that bike transformed from a small picture in a catalog to a reality in our tiny trailer living room.  Getting that first bike was more important than getting my first car.  (Of course, my first car was a Mazda GLC, which could just barely go faster than a bike).

How Mom ever came up with the money to get me that bike is a mystery.  Motherhood is full of unseen sacrifices that a child is not even aware of until much, much later.  Somehow, she managed it.  I distinctly remember telling Mom that I had prayed for that bike and I am sure she affirmed my childhood faith.  My reality was that God had given me a bike because I prayed really, really hard.  Perhaps a misguided notion of what prayer and God are about.  Still, my mother had to have faith that whatever corners she had to cut to get that bike would be made up for in some way by the same providential God to whom I attributed the delivery of my bike.  So, in that sense, I was riding on the coat-tails of Mom's faith.  Then, as now, her connection with heaven was more direct than mine.

Between Mom and I and maybe a neighbor, the bike was quickly assembled.  As I was a slightly built 6-year-old with distinctly average physical coordination, learning with training wheels was mandatory.  Not that I cared.

All I saw once I settled into the seat was how perfectly my hands fit around the rubber grips on the handle bars and how my feet fit the pedals.  I took off slowly at first, figuring out how to turn this beast I was mastering.  After a few small circles, I was off.  Riding faster with the silver plastic streamers hanging from the ends of the grips snapping in the turbulence.  It was not long before the training wheels came off and I was truly a free rider.  I don't remember that first moment of balancing on two wheels, but there are few things to compare to the exhilaration of pedaling a bike with the breeze in your face as you and the bike respond to changes in the road: standing up and pumping really hard to get up hills, crouching down and coasting as gravity pulls you faster than you could ever pedal down hills, jamming on the brakes and leaving long skid marks.  I didn't even think about the wear and tear, just about the coolness of the black stripes I was leaving on the pavement or sidewalk.

My gold steed was a faithful companion for many days, weeks and months that stretched into two years.  But, after a wet winter, I hauled the bike out for a ride one spring evening.  My arms, which had stretched comfortably out in front of me when I first got the bike, now had to be bent at the elbows and splayed out to avoid hitting my legs as I peddled.  To cover the same ground that my faithful steed used to race over before required much more effort because of my increased weight and the awkward leverage made necessary by my longer limbs.  My bicycle was suddenly too small.  In the dark of winter, my bicycle had shrunk and with it my affection.

I don't know what happened to my first bike after that.  Maybe it was passed down to my brother for awhile before completely disappearing.  In another couple of years I would have a new bike that fit me.  But that would require a long and unexpected field trip to the desert with a stranger who happened to be my father.