In downtown Athens, merchants feel free to extend their store area out on the sidewalk, in front of their shops. Many restaurants here routinely take over the public space in front of the place by installing tables and chairs, as well as “temporary” lights and, sometimes, a television set, the better to watch futbol games. Rarely are the property laws enforced here, so, much of the time, the business owner appropriates the public spaces that surround the business with impunity.
As a result, I was not surprised that, during my recent visit to the key shop (see previous post: The Infamous Incident of the Vanishing Ignition Key), I was asked to wait on the street. The shop owner had proudly planted on the busy sidewalk two chairs, a potted plant, a small “coffee table,” newspapers and a coffee pot – the better to entertain the customers while they waited to have copies of their keys made.
After thumbing through the newspapers, I chose to watch the foot traffic, as it sought to navigate around me and the improvised waiting room. The chance to watch folks in their unguarded moments, simply being themselves, is always a treat. What better way to spend a cool, late-September morning, while waiting to get a new key for my car.
Shortly after taking up my post on the pavement, I looked up the sidewalk to see a young woman with a baby in a carriage. About the time that I noticed her, another woman, apparently a friend, also noticed and stopped to chat and admire the baby. After their brief conversation, the mother and baby continued on their way and the woman baby-admirer began to walk toward me. I couldn’t help but notice the smile on her face, for the length of several feet, after seeing the baby. Obviously, the experience of seeing her friend and “oohing” and aahing” over the baby generated pleasant feelings within the woman and her face couldn’t keep from smiling. As she walked passed me she was still smiling!
It set me to wondering: what is the shelf life of a smile? How long will a smile remain in one’s heart or on one’s face? And, does it return, later in the day? I can’t say what the woman was thinking about before she saw the other woman and the baby. I could not begin to know what problems were worrying her, how many deadlines were crashing in on her at work or what pressures she was facing at home. I have no idea whether or not she and her kids had argued that morning, whether or not her sex life was fulfilling or if she and her parents, spouse or ex were currently getting along. Who knows if she was able to pay the rent or if her ideas at work were being rejected by the boss?
I only know that, after seeing a friend and admiring her child, the smile on her face lasted into the next block! Since I did not follow that woman around all day, I can’t tell if the smile ever returned, later in the day, as she remembered meeting the mother and child. Do you reckon she thought about that happy scene later that evening when she was getting ready for bed? I don’t know.
I just know that the happy experience at least momentarily brought joy to the woman’s face. Although my days of strolling babies on the street are (most likely) over, some way, somehow, I want to be the kind of person who, when he is met on the street, can cause a smile to appear on others’ faces - maybe for as long as two blocks!
What about you?
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Say What??
Since it was my day to “cook,” I called Janice while waiting in the longer than desirable line at the bank. Just as she answered the phone, the electronic “Of course-your-are-waiting-in-line! That-is-not-our-concern! You-can-just-learn-to-like-it-or dislike-it!” sign-board lit up number 128; I was holding tightly my sequence number 150!
When Janice answered the phone, I told her that, since it was my day to “cook,” I had changed my mind about lunch. Instead of going to the Greek souflaki “joint,” to fetch two gyro pork sandwiches, I had unilaterally made an executive decision; since it was my day to “cook,” I was choosing to go to the KFC place around the corner. She seemed to handle my mid-course cuisine change with little bother, indicating in some less than enthusiastic tones that whatever I chose, as long as she did not have to cook it, was fine by her.
Fully confident now, that both my initiative and my selections would be honored on the “home front,” thirty minutes later, I completed my business transactions at the bank and proceeded toward the KFC store. As I walked in, the attractive, young, behind-the-counter attendant smiled and welcomed me to the store in perfectly good English. It is not at all unusual for young, minimum-wage employees at fast food establishments in Athens to speak English and to want to practice on those of us who, despite our best efforts, always look like non-Greeks.
Emboldened now, by her alleged English language fluency, I confidently approached the counter and said, in a clear and distinct articulation: “I want an order to go!” With a forlorn look of disdain on her pretty face, she frowned and said: “So sorry, our machine is broken!” Sensing that Greek would serve us both better, I shifted to my Hellenic glossary and said: “Den perasi!” (the rough equivalent in Greek of “It’s okay!”) Without missing a beat, she looked at me and said: “Thellete Coca Cola?” (Do you want a Coca Cola?)
Walking out later, with my order of hot wings and chicken strips (with a Coca Cola) under my arm, I smiled all the way home, just thinking about that interaction with my new Greek, teeny-bopper friend. This mixed up dialogue has now become a part of the lexicon of our lives. When I say something that Janice either doesn’t like or doesn’t understand, she says back to me: “So sorry, our machine is broken!” In response, I now say to her, “Thellete Coca Cola?”
I’m thinking that when it comes my turn to “cook” again, I might just say: “So sorry, our machine is broken!” or “Thellete Coca Cola?”
When Janice answered the phone, I told her that, since it was my day to “cook,” I had changed my mind about lunch. Instead of going to the Greek souflaki “joint,” to fetch two gyro pork sandwiches, I had unilaterally made an executive decision; since it was my day to “cook,” I was choosing to go to the KFC place around the corner. She seemed to handle my mid-course cuisine change with little bother, indicating in some less than enthusiastic tones that whatever I chose, as long as she did not have to cook it, was fine by her.
Fully confident now, that both my initiative and my selections would be honored on the “home front,” thirty minutes later, I completed my business transactions at the bank and proceeded toward the KFC store. As I walked in, the attractive, young, behind-the-counter attendant smiled and welcomed me to the store in perfectly good English. It is not at all unusual for young, minimum-wage employees at fast food establishments in Athens to speak English and to want to practice on those of us who, despite our best efforts, always look like non-Greeks.
Emboldened now, by her alleged English language fluency, I confidently approached the counter and said, in a clear and distinct articulation: “I want an order to go!” With a forlorn look of disdain on her pretty face, she frowned and said: “So sorry, our machine is broken!” Sensing that Greek would serve us both better, I shifted to my Hellenic glossary and said: “Den perasi!” (the rough equivalent in Greek of “It’s okay!”) Without missing a beat, she looked at me and said: “Thellete Coca Cola?” (Do you want a Coca Cola?)
Walking out later, with my order of hot wings and chicken strips (with a Coca Cola) under my arm, I smiled all the way home, just thinking about that interaction with my new Greek, teeny-bopper friend. This mixed up dialogue has now become a part of the lexicon of our lives. When I say something that Janice either doesn’t like or doesn’t understand, she says back to me: “So sorry, our machine is broken!” In response, I now say to her, “Thellete Coca Cola?”
I’m thinking that when it comes my turn to “cook” again, I might just say: “So sorry, our machine is broken!” or “Thellete Coca Cola?”
Thursday, September 30, 2010
The Infamous Incident of the Vanishing Ignition Key!
I finally located a parking place, a “country mile” (in the city of Athens) from where Janice and our guests exited the car. While they grabbed an outside table at Ambrosia, our favorite Greek taverna in Koukaki, one of our favorite sections of the city, I had gone “in search of” a place to hide the Hyundai.
The last thing that Janice said to me was, “Don’t forget the umbrellas!” Her normally accurate meteorological clairvoyance was in anticipation of what certainly seemed to forecast sprinkles of rain in the imminent future. Locating three nearly functioning umbrellas beneath the front seats, I hid the after-market GPS, climbed out of the vehicle and fumbled with the car key, in the futile attempt to lock the doors.
Falling from my hands, the key with its weighty electronic security apparatus seemed to sing a sinister song back at me as it landed on the street grate beneath my feet. In one of those slow motion moments, my already slow-motion brain joined up with my temporarily non-functioning vocal apparatus, itself a rare occurrence for me. Inaudibly, I whined and whimpered helplessly, as the cognitive reality of what I was witnessing slid slowly into some dusty, distant and slightly-used portion of my brain. It was a lot like being in a dream, where you try to scream, but can’t!
At last, something like “Oh, no!” (edited for publication) was released from deep within the chest of my fearful soul. Targeted to no one on the street (or in the world, at all), my angst was entirely directed internally, since I was, in that terrible moment, the sole companion to myself. In some combination of disgust, self-loathing and that universal sense of personal impotence, I watched in horror as the car key bounced on top of the sewer grate and ultimately fell through one of the too-large spaces between the heavy metal bars of the drain cover.
No dummy, I knew immediately that I was as deep in trouble as was my now-still-sinking car key in the sludge. Walking head down in the twilight streets, all the way to the restaurant, I rehearsed my embarrassing report and the plan for rescue that I had quickly devised. While Janice and the others enjoyed a great Greek meal, I, the lonely and long-suffering hero, would catch a cab back to the house, retrieve the other ignition key and return as the rescuer, hungry but successful. In her wisdom, it was patently obvious to Janice that we should simply manually lock the doors, leave the car on the street overnight, catch a cab home after dinner and return tomorrow by trolley to retrieve the car. No need for Bob’s heroics.
On the next day, I stopped by to see my neighborhood friend who owns the key store. In an intriguing combination of my stammering Greek and his “pretty good” English, he delivered the bad news. The replacement key would cost 80 Euros (over $100!) and he could not make the key unless I brought the car to him and proved that, indeed, I was the owner. It’s only money, right?
Well, I am convinced that there are “higher lessons” to be learned and that the moral consequences of this story are obvious and numerous. Talk amongst yourselves! Readers are encouraged to use their imaginations and build personal applications about life’s fragility, human incompetence, the role of “luck” or “karma” or human incompleteness or mankind’s propensity toward klutziness and the occasional lack of manual dexterity, even among the most deft and adept among us. Ever the martyr, I’ll accept the exalted role of moral pedagogue in this. Go ahead! Use me, if you must! Learn from my (all too human) mistakes!
For me, I’ll just point out that it did NOT, in fact, rain that evening. SO, in a stereotypically warped instance of self-serving male logic, I am convinced that the loss of the key is, in fact, all Janice’s fault. If she hadn’t insisted that I bring those umbrellas…. Well, you understand!
The last thing that Janice said to me was, “Don’t forget the umbrellas!” Her normally accurate meteorological clairvoyance was in anticipation of what certainly seemed to forecast sprinkles of rain in the imminent future. Locating three nearly functioning umbrellas beneath the front seats, I hid the after-market GPS, climbed out of the vehicle and fumbled with the car key, in the futile attempt to lock the doors.
Falling from my hands, the key with its weighty electronic security apparatus seemed to sing a sinister song back at me as it landed on the street grate beneath my feet. In one of those slow motion moments, my already slow-motion brain joined up with my temporarily non-functioning vocal apparatus, itself a rare occurrence for me. Inaudibly, I whined and whimpered helplessly, as the cognitive reality of what I was witnessing slid slowly into some dusty, distant and slightly-used portion of my brain. It was a lot like being in a dream, where you try to scream, but can’t!
At last, something like “Oh, no!” (edited for publication) was released from deep within the chest of my fearful soul. Targeted to no one on the street (or in the world, at all), my angst was entirely directed internally, since I was, in that terrible moment, the sole companion to myself. In some combination of disgust, self-loathing and that universal sense of personal impotence, I watched in horror as the car key bounced on top of the sewer grate and ultimately fell through one of the too-large spaces between the heavy metal bars of the drain cover.
No dummy, I knew immediately that I was as deep in trouble as was my now-still-sinking car key in the sludge. Walking head down in the twilight streets, all the way to the restaurant, I rehearsed my embarrassing report and the plan for rescue that I had quickly devised. While Janice and the others enjoyed a great Greek meal, I, the lonely and long-suffering hero, would catch a cab back to the house, retrieve the other ignition key and return as the rescuer, hungry but successful. In her wisdom, it was patently obvious to Janice that we should simply manually lock the doors, leave the car on the street overnight, catch a cab home after dinner and return tomorrow by trolley to retrieve the car. No need for Bob’s heroics.
On the next day, I stopped by to see my neighborhood friend who owns the key store. In an intriguing combination of my stammering Greek and his “pretty good” English, he delivered the bad news. The replacement key would cost 80 Euros (over $100!) and he could not make the key unless I brought the car to him and proved that, indeed, I was the owner. It’s only money, right?
Well, I am convinced that there are “higher lessons” to be learned and that the moral consequences of this story are obvious and numerous. Talk amongst yourselves! Readers are encouraged to use their imaginations and build personal applications about life’s fragility, human incompetence, the role of “luck” or “karma” or human incompleteness or mankind’s propensity toward klutziness and the occasional lack of manual dexterity, even among the most deft and adept among us. Ever the martyr, I’ll accept the exalted role of moral pedagogue in this. Go ahead! Use me, if you must! Learn from my (all too human) mistakes!
For me, I’ll just point out that it did NOT, in fact, rain that evening. SO, in a stereotypically warped instance of self-serving male logic, I am convinced that the loss of the key is, in fact, all Janice’s fault. If she hadn’t insisted that I bring those umbrellas…. Well, you understand!
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Going Down in Dee Feet!
It is definitely a personal first for me. Before this week, I have never had my feet analyzed – in public, at such a reputable, upstanding pseudo-medical establishment as a sports shoe store in the mall! Yep! I’m proud to say that my feet have “stepped up" and "stepped into” the scientific age!
Since we were going to the mall in search of new running shoes, Janice strongly suggested (as only wives can do) that I should temporarily abandon the near-universal male Greek practice of going sockless in summer. Before we left the house, I actually put on (clean) socks. Once at the spiffy sports shoe store, in front of God and anyone else who cared to look, I disrobed my pretty feet by removing the shoes I was wearing and the fresh socks (Told you I didn’t need to wear those socks!) and stood on this fancy, freshly sanitized “foot analyzer.”
I choose to believe it was because my unshod feet are, well, attractive (he modestly said); maybe it was just a slow day at the mall; I’m certain it is not because my feet are in any way eccentric; maybe Greeks don’t often get a close-up look at American toenails; but, for whatever reason, lots of passersby stopped passing by and gawked at my feet. So here I am, standing barefoot and, by the way, holding up each pant leg, so that they would not interfere with the podiatric photo-taking. It was certainly one of my prouder public moments since potty-training.
Buzzing, whirring and techno-electric sounds came from beneath my toes. A hush fell over the crowd. A faint, vibratory action only slightly titillated my tootsies. I continued to stand bendingly tall, despite my embarrassment. (“Never let ‘em see you sweat!”) After a few breathless moments, a suitable for framing picture of the bottoms of my feet appeared on the computer screen. Don’t laugh! Have you ever seen a scientifically accurate rendition of the undersides of your “under standing”?
Pavlo, (not Pavlov) the highly trained, 21-year-old, minimum-wage Greek guy who was trying to sell me a pair of shoes, looked intently at the picture. With a device that looked a lot like “etch-a-sketch” (from when my feet were much smaller and more suited to running and jumping), Pavlo drew computerized lines, took deep breaths, grunted knowingly and completed the scientific analysis of my feet. I resisted the temptation to tell Pavlo about my lower left hip, the slight curvature of my spine and other medically related conclusions arrived at by his professional colleagues in doctor’s offices on two continents.
At last, Pavlo gave a nod, indicating that the “test” was complete. With a couple of Star Wars-like computer sounds, he assumed full control of the Star Ship computer, charging the machine to come to its conclusions and to “beam up” its results, post haste. “There’s good news and not so good news, Mr. Neville!” Pavlo said. (They never get my name right over here!) “The good news is that your feet and (apparently) your stride are normal.” (What a relief! Put that on the resume’!)
“The not so good news is that you will need extra support and, of course, if you continue to run each day, you will want extra cushioning.” The bottom line of these conclusions is that (Am I surprised?) the better choice for my shoe purchase “would need to come from the ‘higher end’ of the price continuum!” I love it when salespersons speak scientific and multi-syllabic!
So, I bought some new running shoes AND two pairs of specialized running socks! But more importantly, each night, as I take off my shoes, go to bed and put my feet up, I can rest easy, knowing that my own personal “base-line” has been established. My records are now (and for eternity) stored in the company computer. And, every time I need to consider buying new running shoes, I need not fret; I can simply consult my friendly and favorite, globally-connected, sports shoe company.
Still standing on my own two feet, another day older in paradise!
Since we were going to the mall in search of new running shoes, Janice strongly suggested (as only wives can do) that I should temporarily abandon the near-universal male Greek practice of going sockless in summer. Before we left the house, I actually put on (clean) socks. Once at the spiffy sports shoe store, in front of God and anyone else who cared to look, I disrobed my pretty feet by removing the shoes I was wearing and the fresh socks (Told you I didn’t need to wear those socks!) and stood on this fancy, freshly sanitized “foot analyzer.”
I choose to believe it was because my unshod feet are, well, attractive (he modestly said); maybe it was just a slow day at the mall; I’m certain it is not because my feet are in any way eccentric; maybe Greeks don’t often get a close-up look at American toenails; but, for whatever reason, lots of passersby stopped passing by and gawked at my feet. So here I am, standing barefoot and, by the way, holding up each pant leg, so that they would not interfere with the podiatric photo-taking. It was certainly one of my prouder public moments since potty-training.
Buzzing, whirring and techno-electric sounds came from beneath my toes. A hush fell over the crowd. A faint, vibratory action only slightly titillated my tootsies. I continued to stand bendingly tall, despite my embarrassment. (“Never let ‘em see you sweat!”) After a few breathless moments, a suitable for framing picture of the bottoms of my feet appeared on the computer screen. Don’t laugh! Have you ever seen a scientifically accurate rendition of the undersides of your “under standing”?
Pavlo, (not Pavlov) the highly trained, 21-year-old, minimum-wage Greek guy who was trying to sell me a pair of shoes, looked intently at the picture. With a device that looked a lot like “etch-a-sketch” (from when my feet were much smaller and more suited to running and jumping), Pavlo drew computerized lines, took deep breaths, grunted knowingly and completed the scientific analysis of my feet. I resisted the temptation to tell Pavlo about my lower left hip, the slight curvature of my spine and other medically related conclusions arrived at by his professional colleagues in doctor’s offices on two continents.
At last, Pavlo gave a nod, indicating that the “test” was complete. With a couple of Star Wars-like computer sounds, he assumed full control of the Star Ship computer, charging the machine to come to its conclusions and to “beam up” its results, post haste. “There’s good news and not so good news, Mr. Neville!” Pavlo said. (They never get my name right over here!) “The good news is that your feet and (apparently) your stride are normal.” (What a relief! Put that on the resume’!)
“The not so good news is that you will need extra support and, of course, if you continue to run each day, you will want extra cushioning.” The bottom line of these conclusions is that (Am I surprised?) the better choice for my shoe purchase “would need to come from the ‘higher end’ of the price continuum!” I love it when salespersons speak scientific and multi-syllabic!
So, I bought some new running shoes AND two pairs of specialized running socks! But more importantly, each night, as I take off my shoes, go to bed and put my feet up, I can rest easy, knowing that my own personal “base-line” has been established. My records are now (and for eternity) stored in the company computer. And, every time I need to consider buying new running shoes, I need not fret; I can simply consult my friendly and favorite, globally-connected, sports shoe company.
Still standing on my own two feet, another day older in paradise!
Friday, July 30, 2010
Dr. Robert A. Reid - My Friend and Colleague!
(Reprinted below is my eulogy which was read at the "Celebration of Life" in Carthage, Texas for Dr. Robert Addison Reid on Friday, July 30, 2010.)
It is said that the true measure of the magnitude of a tall tree can only be known when it is felled and lies beneath our feet. If that is true, then you and I are discovering that a soaring giant has fallen in our forest. Today, those of us who have lived within the blessed shade of the impact of Robert Addison Reid and who have enjoyed the lyrical sounds of music which happily came to life within him give witness to a personal and spiritual upheaval, even as we honestly acknowledge our loss.
Robert Reid was my friend and colleague for many years. I first knew him when he came to serve on the faculty of Houston Baptist University. At a school where high academic standards were the norm, where faculty were expected to share themselves as whole persons, beyond the classroom, and where the authentic Christian commitment of academic role models was strongly encouraged, Robert’s calling was easily and naturally expressed. As an administrative dean with daily relationships among students, I was pleased to have Robert serving closely with me on a significant committee which routinely called for discernment and wisdom in making critical decisions.
When, in God’s providence, it was time for me to leave the university, to serve as a Pastor in a Houston-area Baptist church, I recall seeing Robert, one day, in the hallway. With that gleam in his eye and his ever-ready grin, he called me aside, looked into my face and, borrowing some syntax from the King James Version of Scripture, said: “Remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom.” Both of us knew that Robert was signaling that he would like to serve with me on a church staff at some point in the future. We both laughed at his turn of phrase and happily acknowledged that such a prospect was, indeed, an attractive one.
Several years later, when the Minister of Music resigned at the Memorial Drive Baptist Church, I sought Robert out. I can still recall the joy I felt when I brought Robert’s name and resume to the Personnel Committee of our church, along with my highest recommendation.
From before we began to work together in the church, it was clear that we shared a passion for the priority of corporate worship. Robert understood and firmly agreed with me that acknowledging God in our midst, praising Him and seeking His face in worship were the church family’s first and highest concerns. Further, we covenanted together that we would devote significant energy, creativity and time to the planning and preparing of the worship experiences, each week.
I have worked with and planned worship with many ministers of music over the years. It is rare, indeed, when one finds the equal and authentic combination of both “minister” and “musician” in the same person. It is also rare when one discovers a gifted and creative worship planning partner who brings energy and innovation to the process of worship creation and implementation. Today, I can tell you honestly that Robert Reid, without question, was the best partner that I have ever had in this lofty aspect of my calling.
Robert’s role with me was far more than simply selecting a few hymns to “warm up” the congregation for the Pastor’s sermon. On the contrary, he keenly understood that the entire worship experience was our joint responsibility and that, although our roles were different, as partners in planning, each of us was free to suggest elements and ideas.
It was in this regard that I especially witnessed Robert’s many gifts and his penchant for spiritual curiosity and profound creativity. In those sometimes long and challenging worship planning sessions, where giant Post-it type posters lined the walls of my office, we sought the presence and leadership of the Holy Spirit, desiring to lead our congregation to offer its highest praise to God. We prayed together; we laughed together; we disagreed and agreed; we tried out possible scenarios; Robert often sang or whistled, to help me to catch the impact of a particular musical option; and, we struggled together until we had reached that acceptable and challenging worship plan that we could offer to the congregation. With courage and originality, Robert helped me to lead the congregation, adventurously, to new heights of devotion in their responsibility to honor God.
Robert was a man of impeccably high standards, both for himself and his music. He would settle for nothing but the highest offering of music, when given to God or as an expression of his stewardship to God. He was, of course, especially talented as a composer. So often, his original works served to express his God-given abilities and to advance the cause of Christ. My ministerial colleagues in Houston would marvel when I told them of Robert’s routine contributions to the worship life of our congregation.
Time will not allow me a full exploration of Robert’s many positive characteristics. He read broadly and was capable of and interested in a wide range of profound intellectual topics. He loved the turn of an English phrase. He valued our common Baptist heritage. He loved to pursue ideas and willingly explored many avenues of thought. He was eternally cheerful. Music, like sap in a tree, flowed through him. He whistled, he sang, he laughed and he caused others to do the same. So positive was his ethos, so optimistic was his outlook, so generous was his capacity to give to others.
The last time I saw Robert was last December. Janice and I had been invited, through the influence of Robert and Carolyn, to speak at the Central Baptist Church of Carthage, Texas. They wanted the church to hear about the challenging work to which God has called us in serving among Albanian immigrants in Athens, Greece. We spoke for a lunch meeting, for an evening meeting and enjoyed a quick meal with the pastor at a local restaurant. In between, Robert and Carolyn hosted us in their home. Absent-mindedly, I left my computer laptop at the Reid’s house.
On Thursday morning, just before leaving Henderson, Texas, I realized that I had left the laptop in Carthage. Over the telephone, Robert insisted that he drive to Henderson and bring the laptop. I would not allow it, since, the day earlier, he had driven to Henderson, picked us up and, late at night, returned us to Henderson. So, I drove back to Carthage to pick up the computer.
When I reached the Reid’s home, I knocked on the door at the garage. From the den, Robert shouted to me to “Come on in!” With that hospitality and familiarity characteristic of good friends, I made my way back to the den, where I found Robert sitting in his recliner. Immediately, I could see the weariness on his face. I realized that the previous day of hosting us had taken a toll on his tired body. Since Janice and I had to be in Austin later that day, I quickly retrieved the laptop, said my farewell and was engulfed in one of Robert’s “bear hugs.”
As Robert sat down again and allowed the weight of his body to find its familiar place in that recliner, I remembered another recliner in Houston, where Robert reported that, in the middle of many a sleepless night, he often had tried to rest. It is my last image of Robert on this side of glory. Today, as I remember this good man and grieve his loss, I am, nevertheless comforted by the realization that, at last, he has found a heavenly resting place and that his journey in this life is over.
Rest well, my friend Robert Reid!
It is said that the true measure of the magnitude of a tall tree can only be known when it is felled and lies beneath our feet. If that is true, then you and I are discovering that a soaring giant has fallen in our forest. Today, those of us who have lived within the blessed shade of the impact of Robert Addison Reid and who have enjoyed the lyrical sounds of music which happily came to life within him give witness to a personal and spiritual upheaval, even as we honestly acknowledge our loss.
Robert Reid was my friend and colleague for many years. I first knew him when he came to serve on the faculty of Houston Baptist University. At a school where high academic standards were the norm, where faculty were expected to share themselves as whole persons, beyond the classroom, and where the authentic Christian commitment of academic role models was strongly encouraged, Robert’s calling was easily and naturally expressed. As an administrative dean with daily relationships among students, I was pleased to have Robert serving closely with me on a significant committee which routinely called for discernment and wisdom in making critical decisions.
When, in God’s providence, it was time for me to leave the university, to serve as a Pastor in a Houston-area Baptist church, I recall seeing Robert, one day, in the hallway. With that gleam in his eye and his ever-ready grin, he called me aside, looked into my face and, borrowing some syntax from the King James Version of Scripture, said: “Remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom.” Both of us knew that Robert was signaling that he would like to serve with me on a church staff at some point in the future. We both laughed at his turn of phrase and happily acknowledged that such a prospect was, indeed, an attractive one.
Several years later, when the Minister of Music resigned at the Memorial Drive Baptist Church, I sought Robert out. I can still recall the joy I felt when I brought Robert’s name and resume to the Personnel Committee of our church, along with my highest recommendation.
From before we began to work together in the church, it was clear that we shared a passion for the priority of corporate worship. Robert understood and firmly agreed with me that acknowledging God in our midst, praising Him and seeking His face in worship were the church family’s first and highest concerns. Further, we covenanted together that we would devote significant energy, creativity and time to the planning and preparing of the worship experiences, each week.
I have worked with and planned worship with many ministers of music over the years. It is rare, indeed, when one finds the equal and authentic combination of both “minister” and “musician” in the same person. It is also rare when one discovers a gifted and creative worship planning partner who brings energy and innovation to the process of worship creation and implementation. Today, I can tell you honestly that Robert Reid, without question, was the best partner that I have ever had in this lofty aspect of my calling.
Robert’s role with me was far more than simply selecting a few hymns to “warm up” the congregation for the Pastor’s sermon. On the contrary, he keenly understood that the entire worship experience was our joint responsibility and that, although our roles were different, as partners in planning, each of us was free to suggest elements and ideas.
It was in this regard that I especially witnessed Robert’s many gifts and his penchant for spiritual curiosity and profound creativity. In those sometimes long and challenging worship planning sessions, where giant Post-it type posters lined the walls of my office, we sought the presence and leadership of the Holy Spirit, desiring to lead our congregation to offer its highest praise to God. We prayed together; we laughed together; we disagreed and agreed; we tried out possible scenarios; Robert often sang or whistled, to help me to catch the impact of a particular musical option; and, we struggled together until we had reached that acceptable and challenging worship plan that we could offer to the congregation. With courage and originality, Robert helped me to lead the congregation, adventurously, to new heights of devotion in their responsibility to honor God.
Robert was a man of impeccably high standards, both for himself and his music. He would settle for nothing but the highest offering of music, when given to God or as an expression of his stewardship to God. He was, of course, especially talented as a composer. So often, his original works served to express his God-given abilities and to advance the cause of Christ. My ministerial colleagues in Houston would marvel when I told them of Robert’s routine contributions to the worship life of our congregation.
Time will not allow me a full exploration of Robert’s many positive characteristics. He read broadly and was capable of and interested in a wide range of profound intellectual topics. He loved the turn of an English phrase. He valued our common Baptist heritage. He loved to pursue ideas and willingly explored many avenues of thought. He was eternally cheerful. Music, like sap in a tree, flowed through him. He whistled, he sang, he laughed and he caused others to do the same. So positive was his ethos, so optimistic was his outlook, so generous was his capacity to give to others.
The last time I saw Robert was last December. Janice and I had been invited, through the influence of Robert and Carolyn, to speak at the Central Baptist Church of Carthage, Texas. They wanted the church to hear about the challenging work to which God has called us in serving among Albanian immigrants in Athens, Greece. We spoke for a lunch meeting, for an evening meeting and enjoyed a quick meal with the pastor at a local restaurant. In between, Robert and Carolyn hosted us in their home. Absent-mindedly, I left my computer laptop at the Reid’s house.
On Thursday morning, just before leaving Henderson, Texas, I realized that I had left the laptop in Carthage. Over the telephone, Robert insisted that he drive to Henderson and bring the laptop. I would not allow it, since, the day earlier, he had driven to Henderson, picked us up and, late at night, returned us to Henderson. So, I drove back to Carthage to pick up the computer.
When I reached the Reid’s home, I knocked on the door at the garage. From the den, Robert shouted to me to “Come on in!” With that hospitality and familiarity characteristic of good friends, I made my way back to the den, where I found Robert sitting in his recliner. Immediately, I could see the weariness on his face. I realized that the previous day of hosting us had taken a toll on his tired body. Since Janice and I had to be in Austin later that day, I quickly retrieved the laptop, said my farewell and was engulfed in one of Robert’s “bear hugs.”
As Robert sat down again and allowed the weight of his body to find its familiar place in that recliner, I remembered another recliner in Houston, where Robert reported that, in the middle of many a sleepless night, he often had tried to rest. It is my last image of Robert on this side of glory. Today, as I remember this good man and grieve his loss, I am, nevertheless comforted by the realization that, at last, he has found a heavenly resting place and that his journey in this life is over.
Rest well, my friend Robert Reid!
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Almost Cool Again!
As I write, it’s 7 AM on a Tuesday morning in Athens, Greece. Stepping out on the veranda of our Pangrati apartment, in the still, quiet, earlyness of the morning, it feels almost cool. I know that, even as I type, the blazing sun is rising over the Pentellic marble of the ancient Parthenon on the Acropolis, radiating the heat and generating higher temperatures; I am aware that, soon, the temperature will soar, no matter whether calculated in Celsius or Fahrenheit; but, it’s almost cool.
I am not stupid; I recognize that Athens, Greece in summer is identical to Houston, Texas in summer, without the humidity. I know that sweat is the constant companion of every one of my five million fellow Athenians, at least three million of whom are already in traffic gridlock or on crowded, underground metro cars, cursing each other in contemporary Greek. I know that hot weather is so common in summer that we begin every sentence with “Κάνει ζέστη, alla…” (“It’s hot, but ….”). I am certain that, when August arrives, it will be even hotter. But, at the moment, it’s almost cool!
“Almost” is admittedly “not quite,” but “almost” is far better than “not.” “Almost” is the stuff of which dreams are made. “Almost” is the gift and product of faith, memory, imagination and hope. “Almost” is, sometimes, a deliberate, willful decision to anticipate a better world. Without the capacity to articulate an occasional “almost,” none of us could anticipate an improved future or recall a treasured past.
Sure! I’ll agree! “Almost” is also the repository of disappointment, sometimes yielding to despair. “Almost” carries with it the potential for hope deferred which can so easily become hope denied. But, “almost cool” means that I haven’t entirely forgotten what “cool” is like. “Almost cool” means that, within my sweaty breast there rests a fanciful vision of a more comfortable morning or evening, somewhere in the not too distant days to come.
It’s almost cool because a rain shower visited us yesterday. It’s almost cool because scarce wind has travelled down from the surrounding hillsides and the air is cleaner for a while, this morning. It’s almost cool and, as a result, I can sit on the veranda and watch the little pinwheels spin in the slovenly air currents, even though their movement is more likely the result of the furious flapping of a few thousand dirty pigeon wings.
But, it’s almost cool again in Athens and, in a micro manner, I am celebrating. It’s certainly too hot to jump up and down and the almost coolness surely doesn’t warrant strenuous exercise. But, I am sensing the slightest possibility that the fall is coming and, for this, I am grateful. This morning, I am saying “thank you” for predictability and for routine regularity. While climate change is an undisputed reality and global warming must be acknowledged, sitting in a semi-comfortable chair on my “front porch to the world,” I am here to say that it is almost cool again in Athens!
And, you?
I am not stupid; I recognize that Athens, Greece in summer is identical to Houston, Texas in summer, without the humidity. I know that sweat is the constant companion of every one of my five million fellow Athenians, at least three million of whom are already in traffic gridlock or on crowded, underground metro cars, cursing each other in contemporary Greek. I know that hot weather is so common in summer that we begin every sentence with “Κάνει ζέστη, alla…” (“It’s hot, but ….”). I am certain that, when August arrives, it will be even hotter. But, at the moment, it’s almost cool!
“Almost” is admittedly “not quite,” but “almost” is far better than “not.” “Almost” is the stuff of which dreams are made. “Almost” is the gift and product of faith, memory, imagination and hope. “Almost” is, sometimes, a deliberate, willful decision to anticipate a better world. Without the capacity to articulate an occasional “almost,” none of us could anticipate an improved future or recall a treasured past.
Sure! I’ll agree! “Almost” is also the repository of disappointment, sometimes yielding to despair. “Almost” carries with it the potential for hope deferred which can so easily become hope denied. But, “almost cool” means that I haven’t entirely forgotten what “cool” is like. “Almost cool” means that, within my sweaty breast there rests a fanciful vision of a more comfortable morning or evening, somewhere in the not too distant days to come.
It’s almost cool because a rain shower visited us yesterday. It’s almost cool because scarce wind has travelled down from the surrounding hillsides and the air is cleaner for a while, this morning. It’s almost cool and, as a result, I can sit on the veranda and watch the little pinwheels spin in the slovenly air currents, even though their movement is more likely the result of the furious flapping of a few thousand dirty pigeon wings.
But, it’s almost cool again in Athens and, in a micro manner, I am celebrating. It’s certainly too hot to jump up and down and the almost coolness surely doesn’t warrant strenuous exercise. But, I am sensing the slightest possibility that the fall is coming and, for this, I am grateful. This morning, I am saying “thank you” for predictability and for routine regularity. While climate change is an undisputed reality and global warming must be acknowledged, sitting in a semi-comfortable chair on my “front porch to the world,” I am here to say that it is almost cool again in Athens!
And, you?
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
I Have Told You A Thousand Times Not to Exaggerate!
On the budget airline which Janice and I recently used, it was apparent that management was trying to retrieve as much cash as possible from “cheapo” flyers like us. We could have paid extra to check our bags, to board first and to enjoy an in-flight snack.
In addition to the attempt to swell alternate income streams, “product placement” was also evident. As I settled into my tight-quarters seat and tried to ignore the larger-than-average, sweaty guy seated next to me, while simultaneously attending to the overhead announcement encouraging me to fasten my seat belt and locate the emergency escape exits, my travel-weary eyes met the advertisement that had been affixed to the back of the seat in front on me. With recognizable food label logos promoting the presence of several brands which could be purchased mid-flight, the velcro-attached sign said, with a flourish: “Now Available on Board!”(In the small print which followed, the sign then said: “Subject to availability!”
Methinks that this is more than mere marketing. In this age in which language in general and public rhetoric in particular seem to have been severely devalued and their credibility stretched beyond recognition, we have grown to accept such obvious linguistic inconsistencies as the message in front of my seat. Many people trying to communicate a message these days seem to have learned too well the old argumentation device which I was taught years ago in my varsity debate days in college; subliminally, you can get your message across by exaggeration, hyperbole or outright stretching of the truth; just be prepared immediately to take it back. Like an attorney getting his point in the ears of the jury before the opposing lawyer appeals to the judge, many today are willing to say “too much,” followed by a quick retraction.
Almost routinely these days, politicians say outrageous things about their opponents or those in another party and, as soon as public outcry demands, simply take back the statement by saying that they “mis-spoke,” that they were “confused” or that their remarks may have been “taken out of context.” Even religious leaders now seem willing to say horrible things about those with whom they differ, especially those from another religion; only later, with mock sincerity, they issue statements like “I am so sorry if the things that I might have said may have caused others harm” or “I regret that some have seen malice in my innocent remarks” or “It is unfortunate that some have mis-construed my statement.”
Marketeers, politicians, religious leaders and anyone utilizing words to express a grasp of truth must make much better use of language than this. How long will we allow persons, prejudices and platforms to be advanced by the use of this cheap, shoddy perversion of the spoken or written word, at the expense of both truth and clarity? When will the general public reach the maturity to acknowledge such devices for exactly what they are?
Wish I knew!
In addition to the attempt to swell alternate income streams, “product placement” was also evident. As I settled into my tight-quarters seat and tried to ignore the larger-than-average, sweaty guy seated next to me, while simultaneously attending to the overhead announcement encouraging me to fasten my seat belt and locate the emergency escape exits, my travel-weary eyes met the advertisement that had been affixed to the back of the seat in front on me. With recognizable food label logos promoting the presence of several brands which could be purchased mid-flight, the velcro-attached sign said, with a flourish: “Now Available on Board!”(In the small print which followed, the sign then said: “Subject to availability!”
Methinks that this is more than mere marketing. In this age in which language in general and public rhetoric in particular seem to have been severely devalued and their credibility stretched beyond recognition, we have grown to accept such obvious linguistic inconsistencies as the message in front of my seat. Many people trying to communicate a message these days seem to have learned too well the old argumentation device which I was taught years ago in my varsity debate days in college; subliminally, you can get your message across by exaggeration, hyperbole or outright stretching of the truth; just be prepared immediately to take it back. Like an attorney getting his point in the ears of the jury before the opposing lawyer appeals to the judge, many today are willing to say “too much,” followed by a quick retraction.
Almost routinely these days, politicians say outrageous things about their opponents or those in another party and, as soon as public outcry demands, simply take back the statement by saying that they “mis-spoke,” that they were “confused” or that their remarks may have been “taken out of context.” Even religious leaders now seem willing to say horrible things about those with whom they differ, especially those from another religion; only later, with mock sincerity, they issue statements like “I am so sorry if the things that I might have said may have caused others harm” or “I regret that some have seen malice in my innocent remarks” or “It is unfortunate that some have mis-construed my statement.”
Marketeers, politicians, religious leaders and anyone utilizing words to express a grasp of truth must make much better use of language than this. How long will we allow persons, prejudices and platforms to be advanced by the use of this cheap, shoddy perversion of the spoken or written word, at the expense of both truth and clarity? When will the general public reach the maturity to acknowledge such devices for exactly what they are?
Wish I knew!
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