Dash Stories

It was a sunny, spring day in 1983. I was  a sophomore at the University of Missouri-Rolla. Walking along the Quadrangle, I happened upon a lanky black man seated on a bench. He was dressed in holey, high-water pants, an off-color, formerly white T-shirt, ratty army fatigues jacket, and well-worn tennis shoes, a few sizes too big, with more than just a few toes showing. At his feet was a rumpled, paper grocery sack. In his lap, an open Bible.

I walked by him and wished him a polite “What’s up?” He was quick and eager to respond. . .

“I’ve been jest sittin’ here and prayin’ ‘n aksin’ the Lawd so send someone by to invite me home fo’ dinna and a showa.” Through the thick drawl, it was clear– He caught me and there was no escape. I agreed.

Robert Taylor was down-on-his-luck, illiterate, homeless. He sat in my sparsely furnished college basement apartment later that day and began to tell me his story:

“The Lawd is a teachin’ me to read and He’s a teachin’ me to write.”

He opened his tattered Bible and began “reading” out loud. Not the words on the page in front of him but rather memorized Scripture from elsewhere in the Bible. He then reached into his rumpled, grocery sack and pulled out a dog-eared spiral notebook. The first page had the child-like printed scrawl of the same repeated sentence over and over again: “I love God.” The next page was the repeated sentence: “God loves I.” The next page: “Africa loves God.” And the next page, “God loves Africa.”  The letters were printed mimicking his Bible’s font—e.g. the a’s and g’s were written to resemble the actual printed font as opposed to typical hand-written letters.

His simple dinner and shower turned into an extended three-week stay. One evening, he was cooking dinner. Pork chops. The chops were sizzling in the pan and Robert was preaching, his bible in one hand, wildly swinging the the grease-coated spatula back and forth with the other. Pointing at me with the greasy utensil, he exclaimed:

“Yo Christians grab yo perty Bible and goes to church. Yo comes home and puts it on da shelf. Yo picks up yo perty Bible and goes to Bible study or Wednesday night church. And yo comes home and puts it on da shelf. And yo does it all da time, ovah and ovah, week after week!”

And with tears streaming down his dark cheeks, he continued, still pointing the greasy spatula at me. . .

“But you know what bugs me? Yo Christians don’t know da Word. And you know what REALLY bugs me? YO can read and YO can write!” He began to cry bitterly,  slumping to his knees, clutching his old tattered Bible.

Sinking into the couch, I felt pretty small.

Conviction.

Robert left without so much as a good bye a few days later.

It was midday in late June in rural Nicaragua and it was brutally hot. Diana and I were there on a medical mission trip. There were no sidewalks in the tiny Nicaraguan village, just a dusty road through the middle of town. I observed the villagers around us. They would take a serpentine route down the road, first on one side, then crossing the street to the other and then back again to the opposite side. The reason for this rambling course quickly became obvious.  Shade.  Large trees towered over the the edges of the street and the villagers walked in such a way to take full advantage of the shade. They walked briskly to a shady area, then slowed the pace down to enjoy the respite from the sun, visit briefly with friends, then walked briskly to the next bit of shade, crossing the road as needed to take full advantage of the shade as they moved down the road.  Diana and I followed their lead. It wasn’t the most direct route but it was the most pleasant.

In a 21st century modern culture with its ubiquitous air conditioned houses, businesses, and vehicles, we may forget the luxury and sweet respite of the shade of trees, shadows cast by rocks and hills, or clouds of an overcast day. But the treasure of shade and shadow was not lost on the desert peoples of the Bible.

Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow [or shade] of the Almighty.  I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.” Psalms 91:1, NIV

When the heat of life takes its relentless toll on us, perhaps we should follow the lead of those Nicaraguan villagers and the admonition of the Psalmist and move quickly to the shade of the Almighty and hang out for a bit. Scripture reminds that this “shade” or respite from the heat of life is always close and available. He met Elijah under the broom tree.  He met Ishmael under a desert bush. And He will meet you where ever you might be. His shade is as close as “your right hand” . . .

“The Lord watches over you—the Lord is your shade at your right hand.”  Psalms 121:5 NIV

I don’t drink alcohol. I’ve tried beer, wine.  Just never developed a taste for it.  I really wish I could enjoy a glass of wine but I just don’t like the taste. Chocolate milk and sweet ice tea are different matters altogether. “Taste development” for those yummy beverages were immediate.

But in spite of my teetotaler status, I have been drunk. Just once.

It was the summer of 1999. Diana and I were at a going-away party for one of my physician friends.  We were stationed at Aviano Air Base in northern Italy and my friend was transferring back to the States. It was a hot July afternoon and Diana and I were seated at an outside restaurant table. The local American Baptist minister and his wife sat down at our table. She sat next to Diana and the pastor sat next to me.  The wait staff brought out large mason jars of pineapple juice. We were hot and thirsty. The pastor and I had a jar of juice, and then another, and another.

Watching this all transpire, Diana leaned over to the pastor’s wife and asked, “Do they realize the pineapple juice is spiked with vodka?”

“I know my husband doesn’t know,” replied the pastor’s wife.

“Shouldn’t we tell them?” implored Diana.

“Oh, no, no, no, no!” chuckled the pastor’s wife.  “I’ve been waiting to see this for years!”

So Diana and the pastor’s wife sat back, drinking their bottled water, and watched the two of us knock back 3 or 4 big jars of delicious pineapple juice.  It wasn’t until my third jar that a warm wave overtook me that was distinctly different from the heat of the Italian sun.  This was followed by a big boozy belch.  I knew I was hammered.  The hangover the next day was terrible.

So, there you have it. I’ve been drunk once and I had the pleasure of getting drunk with a Baptist preacher.

Now that has to be a singularly unique accomplishment.

Zoe sat at the table with her plate in front of her. Arms crossed, she stared down at the plate with disgust at the green thing tucked in between the chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese.  The single sprig of broccoli was a foreign color. The green clashed with yellows and browns of the other food.  It was a new thing and Zoe did not like new.

So a battle ensued between me and my 4-year-old daughter.

“Come on, Zoe!  At least try the broccoli,” I pleaded.

“No! It is yucky!” grimaced the little girl.

I pleaded with her again. “But you haven’t even tasted it! At least try one little bite.”

“No!” Zoe was adamant.

We had been down this road before. This battle was one I could not win. So I got creative.

“Zoe, how old are you?” I inquired.

“Four and a half, almost five! I turn five next month!!” she boasted.

“Ahhh! I am so sorry for trying to make you eat broccoli, Zoe! I forgot you were only four years old. Everyone knows four-year-olds don’t like broccoli.”

“Really?” said the little one, now fully attentive.

“Yep! It is just a fact. Kids your age don’t like broccoli at all. BUT when you turn five, you will awaken that very morning and you will absolutely love broccoli. I promise!”

“Really Daddy? Five-year-olds like broccoli?”

“That’s right. In fact, they LOVE broccoli! It is just the way things are Zoe!”

So, every day for the next five weeks I talked about the glories of turning five:  Kindergarten. Birthday cake and presents. And, of course, broccoli.

Zoe’s anticipation grew.  “Daddy, I cannot wait to turn five and love broccoli!”

On the special day, there was a birthday cake and ice cream, presents, and a special dinner of chicken nuggets, macaroni and cheese, and, as promised, broccoli.

She scarfed down the broccoli sprig.  “Daddy, you’re right! Five-year-olds do love broccoli!”  She even asked for seconds.

About a year later I thought we would go round two and up the ante.

“Zoe, do you know six-year-olds love ALL vegetables?”

She crossed her arms and scowled. “Daddy, I’m almost six. I don’t believe that stuff anymore!”

Well, at least she still loves broccoli.

Let me to introduce you to this little guy, a 6-inch bear figurine. He’s been a companion of ours for nearly 34 years. The stories he could tell . . .

On Valentine’s Day, 1985, a skinny 22-year-old college senior plucked the bear off a Hallmark store shelf for $1.99 and bought a single rose. It was a snatch and grab. Not much thought to it. In and out of the store in less than 5 minutes. He then took a young lady for a first Valentine’s Day date to the Red Lobster in Ballwin, Missouri. The skinny guy tipped 20%. He must have been trying to impress her.

On Valentine’s Day, 1986, the little acrylic bear was perched atop a window sill in a two-bedroom apartment in Tulsa, Oklahoma. The bear saw the skinny guy, now married to that same young lady. They are sitting on a second-hand mattress on the floor of the “master bedroom” enjoying their 3 sons: 2 boys from her prior marriage and a newborn. A Valentine’s Day date to Red Lobster? Totally out of the question.

On Valentine’s Day, 1988, the little plastic bear sat on a cardboard box (the dresser, of sorts) in the living room of an apartment in Chesapeake, Virginia. The young lady nursed a newborn daughter. The skinny guy was working. He wasn’t home much—2 jobs and graduate school.

By Valentine’s Day, 1992, the bear had graduated to sitting on a real bedroom dresser in a duplex in Columbia, Missouri. The young lady was rocking, cradling her pregnant abdomen. #5, another daughter, was due any day. The skinny guy was nowhere to be seen—a medical student; on call again. “Valentine’s Day” would wait until the next clinical rotation.

Valentine’s Day, 1998, the bear is nowhere to be seen. He’s packed up in a crate somewhere between Florida and Italy. But he was there in spirit. The household was in disarray. The not-so-young lady and the not-so-skinny guy were very excited about the upcoming move to Italy. A new adventure awaited.

Valentine’s Day 2004, the bear sat on the bedroom dresser in Swansea, Illinois. The formerly young lady wrote the formerly skinny guy an email wishing him a Happy Valentine’s Day. He was deployed and wouldn’t be home for several weeks.

Valentine’s Day 2019: The acrylic bear still occupies a place on the bedroom dresser in Swansea. The formerly young lady enjoys her grandchildren and the formerly skinny guy is working again. But the formerly skinny guy will be home soon to enjoy his formerly young wife.

This little ursine fellow has been there for nearly every Valentine’s Day the lady and guy have had together—34 total. And if he could talk I’m sure he’d remark that this formerly skinny guy and formerly young lady are a good match and very much in love with each other. And he’d be proud that he had a small part in that.

Happy Valentine’s Day Diana! I love you!

In the spring of 1910, former President Theodore Roosevelt was on a whirlwind speaking tour through Europe culminating in Oslo, Norway where he would receive the Nobel Peace Prize for his efforts at brokering the Treaty of Portsmouth that ended the Russo-Japanese War of 1904-1905. In April, he gave a very long speech, Citizenship in a Republic, at the Sorbonne in Paris. The bulk of the speech is largely forgotten but a small excerpt would go down as one of his more famous quotes, popularly known as the “Man in the Arena” speech. This may be my favorite non-biblical quote.

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

Teddy must have admired the disciple, Peter. Peter was an “in-the-arena-sort-of-guy.” I have heard many sermons about Peter, critical of his unbelief–first and foremost, his denial of Christ at His crucifixion. But a close second would be criticism of his wavering faith while walking on the water.  I just don’t see Peter in too much of a negative light. In fact, there is plenty to emulate here. This event is a classic “man in the arena” story and easily one of my favorite biblical accounts.

Shortly before dawn Jesus went out to them, walking on the lake. When the disciples saw him walking on the lake, they were terrified. “It’s a ghost,” they said, and cried out in fear.

Jesus immediately said to them: “Take courage! It is I. Don’t be afraid.”

“Lord, if it’s you,” Peter replied, “Tell me to come to you on the water.”

“Come,” he said.

Then Peter got down out of the boat, walked on the water and came toward Jesus. But when he saw the wind, he was afraid and, beginning to sink, cried out, “Lord, save me!” Immediately Jesus reached out his hand and caught him. “You of little faith,” he said, “why did you doubt?” And when they climbed into the boat, the wind died down. Then those who were in the boat worshiped him, saying, “Truly you are the Son of God.”  

Matthew 14:25-33, NIV

Peter doubted and that is certainly a negative. Jesus, after all, rebuked him for it. But Peter did walk on the water. He and Jesus are in a very exclusive fraternity in this regard. And remember, there were eleven disciples who did not make the journey. They were content to watch from the familiar confines of the boat. Peter had, as Teddy would say it, the “great enthusiasm” of walking on the water and would fail while “daring greatly.” He also had the great enthusiasm of being rescued by Jesus’ strong hand. What of the other eleven–those “cold and timid souls” back in the boat? Their collective experience was likely limited to vicarious regrets wishing they had taken that first step beyond the gunwale. The lesson often lost in this story is that in spite of Peter’s shortcomings, it was still better to be a wet-water-walker than a dry-boat-sitter.

It was the juxtaposition of Teddy’s “Man in the Arena” quote with the illumination of Peter’s adventure on the water that helped spur me to action in 1987. I was married, three children with one on the way, and working a low-wage job in Norfolk, Virginia. Aspirations of medical school had diminished, choked by the tyranny of bills, schedules, and my own insecurities (was I good enough, smart enough, to do it?). But after the twin revelations of Teddy and Peter, I reasoned the worse thing that could happen would be failure, and even in failure, Jesus’ strong hand would be there for us. So I studied, took the Medical College Admissions Test, uprooted my family and moved to Missouri to reestablish state residency, and that next year applied to the University Of Missouri-Columbia School Of Medicine. And the rest is, as they say, history.

Thirty years later, my figurative boat has expanded. Uncertain seas of the past have transitioned to the surefooted decks of routine familiarity.  I write this and wonder if I am again “in the boat.”  What new thing  does God want from me that requires taking a step beyond the gunwales of my comfort zone and  natural abilities and onto the figurative water?

Jesus is certainly calling me.

“Come.”

 

The monochromatic desolation of the Middle Eastern deserts is something you have to experience to even remotely comprehend. I’ve spent some time in the deserts of Qatar, Egypt, Jordan, and Israel and the total absence of plant life is something almost otherworldly; almost lunar.

In the spring and summer of 2005, I was deployed to Al Udeid Air Base in the desert outside of Doha, Qatar. While there, I really missed the green. In fact, I think we all missed the contrast a plant, tree, even a single leaf could provide. There was literally nothing growing anywhere. Not even a cactus or a sprig of grass. So great was our desire for something green that some enterprising folks actually had their families mail them potting soil and grass seed. They would carefully cultivate a small patch of grass just outside the door of their trailer and grow a “lawn.” We would all water the “lawn” as we walked by with our water bottles. Occasionally, the “lawn owner” would carefully “mow his lawn” with a pair of scissors. While he “mowed,” we would gather around to take in the scent of home, a freshly mowed lawn. It was glorious.

An Al Udeid lawn

Aside from the occasional “lawn,” the only other bit of green on the entire base during my time there was a single tiny tomato plant, no doubt a “salad volunteer” that managed to start growing along the sidewalk from the dining hall. We would give the little plant at drink from our water bottles as we went to and from the dining hall. The little guy did well through April and May at 115°F and even sported a tiny solitary yellow bloom. But when the 125-130°F temps of July and August came, the little tomato plant wilted away. I genuinely felt a little pang of grief when my little green friend died. I really liked that tomato plant.

This barrenness is what the Bible refers to as “the wilderness.” The wilderness of the Middle East is not one of endless forests and mountains. When Jesus and Moses went into the wilderness, it was desolation they experienced, not forests. In fact, God defines wilderness in Jeremiah 2:2, as a “land not sown,” barren of plant life.

Sometimes we can feel like we are in a spiritual wilderness. We can feel dry. Our lives can become monochromatic, void of purpose, and barren. I know it happens to me. When that happens, I remind myself the wilderness (my wilderness) is best defined by what it lacks. It is a “land not sown.” It lacks growth and vitality born of a life planting and investing in the lives of others. And sometimes (most times), the best path out of that wilderness is not north, south, east, or west. The best path is to stay put and start planting myself out of my wilderness right where I am. I plant by ceasing to be self-centered and begin reaching out to others, giving of myself, and putting my hands and heart to doing God’s work, right here, right now.  And when I do, I have God’s promise and assurance that those seeds will germinate, spring forth, and life will return and overtake my wilderness.

 

 

 

 

 

In the roster of the cast of the Real Christmas, the A-list lead is, of course, the baby. While the baby in a manger was God in every sense of the word, He was still, after all, a newborn baby and helpless. So He needed a great supporting cast. This “Save the World” thing was going to be a big deal. First among the supporting cast were His mother, Mary and her betrothed and Jesus’ new step-father, Joseph. The two were specially chosen to do what they were setting out to do—to raise the Son of God.  Mary gets a lot of air time in religious circles and she deserves it. But I’m partial to Joseph. Here’s why . . .

I married Diana in 1985.  I was 22 years old.  She was a widow with two sons, Jesse, age 5 and Gabriel, age 22 months. In an instant, I went from living in a one-room bachelor pad with guitar to being a husband and step-dad with four mouths to feed. It was harrowing.  To say I had a crisis of confidence would be kind and optimistic. No job. No savings. No experience with the “dad thing.”  I muddled through with waning confidence for the first several months of our marriage. My breakthrough came on a Sunday before our first Christmas together as a new family. The pastor’s sermon topic? It wasn’t quintessential Christmas fare. It was all about Joseph, Jesus’ step-father. The pastor expounded on the inadequacies and feelings of paternal illegitimacy Joseph must’ve felt when charged with the supreme task of raising the Son of God. Earthly step-fathers often feel they must “measure up” and “compete” with the living “ex” or the ghost of the deceased father. Self-inflicted many times, but very real. Imagine trying to “compete” with the Creator of the Universe!  But as the pastor preached, his message became clear. God selected Joseph specifically for the grand task of raising the Son of God and He fully equipped him to do it and do it well. Similarly, God selected me to raise these two boys and equipped me to do it and do it well. I was not alone in this grand adventure.

There are epiphanies in one’s life that become central to direction, purpose and identity and that Sunday sermon was one of mine. On that day, I graduated from step-dad to Dad.  I don’t believe Joseph introduced Jesus to others as his “step-son.”  It was probably more like, “This is my son, Jesus.”  Similarly, the toddler Jesus probably cried out “Abba!” to Joseph when he fell and scraped his knee. In our family, the “step-thing” is only a term relegated to legal documents. “Dad” will suffice, thank you.

Not too long ago I received a text, out of the blue, from Gabriel (now 35 years old!).  No pretext or introduction. Just four simple words.

“I love you, Dad!”

I cannot overstate how affirming this was for me.

All five living presidents with first ladies were in attendance at George H.W. Bush’s funeral this past week to honor the passing of “one of their own.” Theirs is an exclusive fraternity like few others. It was heartening to see them come together with single purpose. While appearances may be deceiving, they all appeared to genuinely identify with the deceased and grieve his passing and, in doing so, identify with each other. The respite from political turmoil was refreshing. Despite their political differences, the five presidents were all Americans, all men, all husbands, all fathers, and all had suffered loss to some degree on another. They had all served this great nation. They are much more alike than different.  But aren’t we all?

In the summer of 2005 I was deployed to Al Udeid Air Base, Qatar as the chief physician for the U.S. military hospital. I had been asked to escort four female Airmen on a “morale” trip to downtown Doha, the capital city, and soon found myself in a huge five-story shopping mall. My wife, Diana, will certainly attest to the irony of my predicament.  I am not a mall sort of guy. The mall was not unlike what we have here. There were fast food restaurants. Some very familiar. Some exotic and unfamiliar.  All were halal. Most of the shops were ones you would find in any mall in America. There was one striking difference–the fifth floor.

The fifth floor was a women’s-only floor. Guards at the base of the escalators on the fourth floor were armed with semiautomatic carbines to deter the unauthorized gender. I was told women, many donned in hijabs, veils and burqas, would go up the escalator, pass through the doors, shed hijabs, veils and burqas often revealing the latest Paris fashions, and shop unencumbered.  And that left us at the bottom of the escalator—the beleaguered male class.

My four female charges left me, unchaperoned, and went shopping on the forbidden floor.  I, along with a few dozen other men, found a seat in the “men’s waiting area” at the base of the escalator. I sat down on a bench next to a man about 20 years my senior.

The older gentleman wore a white turban and robe. Through broken English (on his part), very broken Farsi (on my part), and some very inventive charades and pantomime, we struck up a conversation. He was from a small district in the suburbs of Tehran, Iran. His wife and 3 teenage and 20-something daughters were there on a shopping trip. He, as he saw it, was there to finance the whole operation. As my four charges and his family shopped, we sat and waited . . . and waited. We spoke lovingly and proudly of our respective families, aspirations for our children and grandchildren, and, of course, whined about the interminable wait.  We shared pictures from our wallets.  We laughed. And we complained about the wait some more and laughed some more. It was male bonding to the core. Geopolitics never entered the conversation. Not once. Just a man talking to a man about the things that matter most. The time passed relatively quickly and soon I was back on chaperone duty.  We shook hands, briefly embraced, and went our separate ways.

Over the years, I’ve thought a lot about that brief visit on the bench at the base of the escalator. Behind and beyond the macrocosm of national and world events, there are people. Just people. Different languages, cultures, religions, and races.  But just people in the end. When the thin veneer of those things that divide us is stripped away, we are really not all that different. Take it from an old guy in a turban on a bench in a mall in Doha.

In late 1995, my then-3-year-old daughter, Zoe walked up to Diana, placed her little hand on her mom’s abdomen, and with the solemnity of a Word from Heaven, proclaimed her mommy was going to have a little brother and his name would be Joshua. These were huge words from a typically reserved and nearly nonverbal little girl. We smiled. “How cute and precocious.” But three weeks later and “one week late” the little stick was blue and we were expecting #6. Zoe knew!

3 months later I was in my afternoon clinic. The radiologist called me with Diana’s 20-week ultrasound results. The tone from the radiologist was somber. The news wasn’t good. Our little one had died.

Later that week Diana was taken to the operating room next to Labor and Delivery for a procedure to extract the body of our child from her. I waited in the obstetrics OR men’s dressing room pulling a double vigil, both as husband/father and as physician managing the labor of another woman down the hall. I waited, dressed in blue scrubs, sitting on the bench between the rows of lockers. I ducked out periodically to check the lady on L&D, then back to the OR dressing room bench to wait.

Suddenly the door from the OR burst open. A nurse carried a large clear jar wrapped in blue towels on his way to pathology. The towel slipped off briefly revealing the body of my son–in pieces mostly. I tried to look away but I couldn’t. I wanted to see him.

The door slammed shut leaving me again in the silence of my own thoughts. I buried my head in my hands and I wept. I had never felt so much pain. My pager blared out. The woman in labor was crowning. I washed my face, steeled myself, and headed to L&D. I delivered the baby and then rushed to Recovery to be with Diana.

Joshua Grey Sensintaffar is my son and I’m grateful for the little time I had with him. He has extraordinary value not just because he was loved by his parents but also because, born or pre-born, he was and is God’s child and created in His image. I am so thankful I will see him again.

Joshua, I love you little buddy.