Dash Stories

The six-foot-long black snake slithered out ahead of me as I ran through a neighboring farmer’s freshly mown hayfield. It was late summer of 1976 and we had recently moved to rural Dent County, Missouri. The fields and woods of the local area were ripe for exploring. Running across the field, I nearly trampled the snake. It startled me at first but I soon realized the snake offered promise to control mice and rats in the barn. So I chased the reptile down and caught it. Grasping the snake behind the head, its long body coiled around my right arm.

The walk home was sort of a long one, especially carrying a big snake, so I walked up to a small farmhouse a short distance from the hayfield. I knocked on the side door to the kitchen. and an old woman, Mrs. Wolf, answered the door.  She was at least 80 years old and a few inches shy of five feet tall.

“My, my young man! What do you have there?”

“Ummm, ah, yeah. Ma’am, I have a snake.”

“I can see that.”

“Ma’am, do you have a paper sack I could put my snake in?”

“Of course! Of course! Come right in.”

I stepped into the old kitchen, snake-in-hand. There was a hand pump at the sink, an old white refrigerator with a round, domed door and chrome pull, a white Formica table with chrome legs and matching chairs. The old woman tottered with the aid of her cane over to the refrigerator, reached down and grabbed a brown paper bag from between the refrigerator and wall. She turned toward me and popped the bag open with a snap of her wrist. Reaching toward me she demanded, “Let me have that thing.” And then the sub-five-foot octogenarian deftly snatched the six-foot-long snake out of my hand quick as a wink, dispatching the serpent with a swish followed by the crunch and curl of the bag. “Here you go, young man!” and she handed the paper bag with snake back to me. Dumbfounded and majorly impressed, I left.

When I got home, Mom met me in the yard.

“What’s in the bag?” she inquired.

“Vegetables from Mrs. Wolf.”

Things went downhill from there.

The old doctor  leaned back in his office chair. His office was full of the trappings of over 50 years of practicing medicine . . . textbooks new and old, a framed diploma from Tulane Medical School (1942) on the wall, patients’ charts stacked up to one side of the desk, no computer, an old stethoscope slung over the chair. He was my attending and mentor for my geriatric medicine rotation during the third year of my family medicine residency. It was 1995. The morning clinic schedule was light and as old men often do when they have nothing better to do, he began to reminisce. . .

“You know, Solomon was one of my best friends growing up. We grew up together in Meridian, Mississippi. I went to the all-white school; he, the all-black school. But the weekends were ours to enjoy. Fishing, playing ball. We were really good friends.

“I went to college and then Tulane for medical school. He was smart too, but he didn’t have the same opportunities I did. He eventually married a girl and made his living milking cows for the town folk. Many families had a milk cow back then. The War took me to the Pacific after a year internship at Charity in New Orleans. When I got home in 1946, I opened a practice. I had lost all contact with Solomon.

“In 1958 or so, Solomon sent a letter to me. He had moved his family to a town across the state some years prior. He had been imprisoned on suspicion of murder. As I learned, Solomon milked a local banker’s cow twice daily. On Friday, he would collect his weekly fee, a few dollars, from the banker’s wife. On that particular Friday, the banker’s wife did not have the exact change and asked if Solomon could come back on Monday for the week’s pay. Solomon readily agreed.

“That weekend, the banker’s wife was found murdered. A blood-stained man’s dress shirt was found at the scene—the husband’s shirt—or at least his size. While the evidence pointed to the husband, a pillar in the community, Solomon was a convenient scapegoat and he was arrested and charged in the murder. They said he killed her for the two dollar fee owed him. You know, the shirt was at least 3 sizes too big for Solomon.

“Right away, I went to Solomon. From his cell, he pleaded with me to secure good legal representation. Trials were quick in those days with his proceedings to begin immediately. The court-appointed attorney clearly was not invested in acquittal or justice. I did finally get him an attorney but not before an all-white jury convicted him and sentenced him to death.

“So the attorney I had secured from him filed a request for appeal and by some miracle it was granted. After weeks of trial prep we felt we had a good case. Then, out-of-the-blue, Solomon summoned me to his cell. ‘Please call off the appeal. I can’t go through with it! Just let them execute me.’ He cried bitterly. After some probing, the reason for the sudden change of heart became clear. The KKK had paid him a visit and threatened to kill his wife and children if he went through with the appeal. There was nothing we could do. Solomon became utterly uncooperative with any appeal. He confessed to the murder.

“The electric chair was the execution tool of choice back then. And with every execution, they needed a doctor to attend the execution to confirm and pronounce death. So I volunteered. Now you may ask, why would I do such a crazy thing?

“There was a new technology available at that time, the cardiac defibrillator. Cutting edge. And I had used the device to shock patients back a few times. I reasoned that if Solomon was executed by shock, I could shock him back to life. And with double-jeopardy (so I reasoned), I could save his life. I know, it was a crazy idea but I was desperate.

“The prison staff asked about the defibrillator I brought. None of them had seen anything like it. I made something up. I lied. But eventually, they figured out what I was up to. The executioner gave poor Solomon a couple extra minutes of electricity just to put any thought of resuscitation out of my mind. I can still remember the smell of his burning flesh. It was so unjust. So wrong. I failed Solomon. I am so sorry. I should’ve done something more.”

The old doctor wept silently in his chair. His nurse stuck her head into the office, looked at both of us quizzically and informed us our next patient was ready. I went to see the next patient and left the old doctor alone with his thoughts and grief.

In May 1997, Diana and I were on a medical mission trip to Nicaragua. We had arrived with our team to the tiny, hot, dusty town of Waspam in northern Nicaragua just across the Rio Coco from Honduras.

On the evening of the first full day in Waspam, I was in terrific need of a bath or shower. Inquiring, I was directed to a rain barrel at the corner of a neighboring building. The barrel collected rainwater from the roof through a spout. There was a semblance of a shower curtain around the barrel and a tiny tin cup attached by a string to the wall. It was a very tiny cup. I went looking for a bigger cup. At about that time, the generator for the town’s power shut down for the night and all I was left with was the moon and stars for light. Up in our sleeping quarters, I noted a shelf with a line of one-gallon jugs of drinking water we’d brought with us.

“Ummm,” I thought, “With my pocket knife, I could fashion a nice big water dipper out of one of those jugs.”

Grabbing each jug in the dark, it was apparent they were all full of water. Separated by several feet, at the end of the shelf is a lone gallon jug. I grabbed it. “Great, quarter-full! I can use this!” Not to waste the water, I tipped the jug up to my mouth to drink the remaining water. At that very instant, the Nicaraguan moon- and starlight filtered through the contents of my jug. Yellow!! The nasty liquid hit my mouth, lips and the back of my throat. The jug had been used as a makeshift urinal by a member of our team the night before. I leaned over the porch railing and proceeded to relieve myself of dinner, lunch and breakfast. Diana, was beside herself, laughing hysterically. Once I regained my composure, I brushed my teeth (several times). Then I kissed Diana for all her loving support and sympathy–OK, that’s a lie–She would not let me come near her. And then, at last, I had my much-deserved dip bath at the corner rain barrel–using the gallon water jug-turned urinal-turned water dipper. It was refreshing.

For the rest of our trip, the trip leaders pushed hydration–with yellow lemon-lime Gatorade of all things. I simply could not stomach it. Plain (clear) water only for me. I have problems drinking a yellow-colored drink like lemon-lime Gatorade to this day–especially if it is in a plastic gallon jug.

Roses have been an old stand-by for husbands for years. They are the quintessential sign of love and romance. I had fallen back on this tried and true romantic overture for many anniversaries, Valentines’ Days, and birthdays. It was easy. Automatic. And Diana always seemed to appreciate the sentiment.

But then I had to come and mess it all up.

It was June 2005 and I was enjoying an extended 5 month “vacation” in the deserts of Southwest Asia courtesy the U.S. Air Force and taxpayer. Taking a break from my military and medical duties, I set about surprising Diana with roses for our 20^th anniversary. I had already sent her an anniversary card a week prior (a birthday card edited for anniversary purposes with a black Sharpie—local resources were limited). This whole routine of me being gone for the important days was all too familiar. It seemed I had missed a good portion of our anniversaries over the prior 10 years.  I felt bad about it and I wanted to make it somewhat right. So I set out to order a dozen roses from ProFlowers.com. Searching the web page of the various arrangements, I set eyes on an arrangement at the bottom of the page. The arrangement of red roses was beautiful. Moreover, there were twenty roses, one of each year of our marriage.  And importantly and inexplicably, it was 15 dollars cheaper than any other comparable arrangement. Bam!  Done deal!  Sold.

On our 20^th anniversary, I called Diana.

It was great to hear Diana’s voice. “Oh honey, thank you so much for the flowers!  They’re beautiful!”

“So, you liked the roses?” (fishing for more accolades)

Silence.

“Diana? Are you there? Hello?”

Diana stammers awkwardly. “You didn’t send roses.”

“Of course I did! Twenty red roses!”

“ Honey, the florist must’ve made a mistake. They’re red tulips.”

Thinking almost out loud . . .  “Ahhh, that explains the discounted price.” Checking the email receipt while talking to Diana, it was there—an arrangement of 20 red tulips. I silently chided myself — “What a dummy.”

“I’m so sorry Diana. I meant to send a 20 red roses, one for each year of our marriage.”

“Oh honey!! I love them. They’re so pretty. Thank you so much! I believe I like them more than roses!” As usual, Diana was gracious.

And so a marital tradition was born–crafted out of romantic motives corrupted by cheapskate tendencies. I guess it turned out pretty good.

Diana still loves red tulips.

It is now “our” flower.

The cost savings over the years has been considerable.

Several years ago I received a simple CD with “Happy Father’s Day” scrawled across it. On the CD was a 1:52-long song from my sons-Gabe, Lee, and Jesse. Gabe had penned the words and the boys all performed and recorded it for me–a Father’s Day tribute.

Here is the song:

And for older ears that may need a little help deciphering the words (like me), here are the lyrics:

A Man Who is a Man

I wonder how life would be if no one had a father

To tell them how to be and tell them to try harder

And no matter how hard they grind

You’ve got to be stronger

 

And while you’re young,

He even watches you while you sleep

Just to make sure you never fall

Then he goes to work, 7 days a week

Just to make sure you have it all

 

A father looks down to his son and says,

“Nothing comes for free

There’s a road that’s straight and narrow

That’s often hard to see

But if you lose your way

You can always count on me.”

 

And while you’re young,

He even watches you while you sleep

Just to make sure you never fall

Then he goes to work, 7 days a week

Just to make sure you have it all

 

A man who raises a man

Is a man who is a man

And if he ain’t a man

Then I don’t know who I am.

 

I love being a dad.

 

I called James* late on a Friday afternoon. I had a break in my busy, hectic day as a Pentagon staff officer and wanted to catch up with an old friend. We talked briefly about mutual Air Force-related concerns and the conversation quickly transitioned to the personal. We talked of future plans, wives, kids and family activities for several minutes. Then it was back to the grind.

Two days later, my quiet Sunday afternoon was jarred by a phone call. I was notified James was dead from an apparent suicide—a gunshot to the head.  In disbelief, I argued over the phone . . .

“Are you sure it was James?”

“Surely he must’ve been murdered?”

“Maybe an accident?”

“Why would he do such a thing? We just talked less than 2 days ago and he seemed so normal–so happy. Planning for the future.”

None of it made sense.

Two days later, I was notified I’d been appointed to escort James’ widow, four children, and his remains to McGuire Air Force Base, New Jersey for the funeral and interment. The new widow had made a by-name request for my assistance.

By the end of the week I was at the Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport in my dress blues and waiting for the family. I had already retrieved the remains—a simple wooden box with James’ ashes. I spoke with the American Airlines gate agent. We were all permitted to board first. At the end of our flight to Philadelphia, as the flight taxied up to the jetway, the captain asked everyone remain seated while James’ family and I deplaned. As we exited the plane onto the jetway, the entire aircrew was there—captain, first officer, and flight attendants, all standing at attention, rendering salutes.

The next day was the funeral.

A tri-folded American flag was presented . . .

 “On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Air Force and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your husband’s honorable and faithful service.”

Three rifle volleys rang out from the honor guard.

Taps were played.

As the last note of taps faded, a four-ship of 2 C-17s and 2 KC-10s lumbered overhead with one of the C-17s suddenly veering upward, towards the heavens, in missing man formation.

I gave a final salute for my good friend and that was it.

I was one of his best friends and I never saw it coming. The “what-ifs” and “should haves” still haunt me.

* pseudonym

August 15, 1983. I was 21 years old and a junior at the University of Missouri-Rolla. I was also a children’s pastor at my local church. I left my apartment that evening to preach at a children’s event in Dixon, Missouri. Over 100 children ages 3 to 12 were gathered from local churches for the service. As I walked out to my car, my landlady burst out her front door and rushed to her car. “Jesse has been run over by a garbage truck!” she cried out. “Please pray!!” Jesse was her 4-year-old grandson and one of the kids in our children’s church. I was torn. “Should I cancel the engagement and head to the hospital or go to Dixon and preach?” I decided to head to Dixon.

Prior to preaching to the kids, I called the hospital. Jesse was critically injured. A 12-ton truck had crushed his left shoulder, left rib cage, pelvis and abdomen, nearly severing his left leg. His blood pressure was 30/0. Blood was transfusing. He was headed to the OR. It seemed awfully bleak. To be honest, my faith was low.  I didn’t think he’d make it.

I proceeded to preach to the 100+ kids about Peter, contrasting his cowardice before Jesus’ crucifixion with his boldness after Pentecost. I dressed as a surgeon in blue scrubs, gown and mask for the sermon. During the sermon, I took a boy and proceeded to “surgically” remove a live chicken from his belly while talking about Peter and how the Holy Spirit “got the chicken out” of him. It was just a simple object lesson. 

The sermon went well. Children were rapt with attention and they did not harm my chicken when I let her loose in the church. But my thoughts were elsewhere. After finishing the sermon, I pulled a 4-year-old boy out of a pew. I explained to the kids:

“I’m not a real doctor. This was a pretend surgery illustrating a spiritual lesson. But at this very moment there are real doctors dressed just like me, operating on a real little boy just this big [pointing to the 4-year-old standing with me]. This little guy has been crushed by a big truck. Satan wants to kill him, but we need to pray and pray really hard.”

The church was absolutely silent. No child stirred. I turned the service over to one of the other ministers and immediately left for the hospital. As I left, I saw the kids begin to kneel and pray.

A miracle happened that day. Jesse lived. His leg was saved. Recovery was expected to take several months and was likely to cause significant disability. But he was riding his bicycle within a few months. No disability at all.

Tragically, a year later, Jesse’s father died unexpectedly. Several months after that, I married Jesse’s mother, Diana. Jesse’s children’s pastor had become his step-father.

In the summer of 1989, I had been accepted to medical school on an Air Force scholarship. I went to Texas for six weeks of officer training. While there, the 700 Club heard of Jesse’s miracle and flew Diana and Jesse to Virginia Beach to appear on the show. After their appearance, they were invited to appear on another Christian talk show in Chicago. They scheduled the appearance after my officer training so I could appear with them. We drove to Chicago for the taping of the TV show. During the interview, I told them about the kids in Dixon. Walking off the set, the next guest grabbed me by the arm as she stepped up. “I have to talk to you,” she whispered, “Please don’t leave!!”

After her interview, she approached us.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

“No,” I replied.

“I was the minister you left all those kids with in Dixon, Missouri,” she informed me.

I apologized. “Oh! I’m so sorry!”

“No worries!” she replied. “You don’t know the rest of the story. After you left, those 100 kids prayed. Even the little ones. And they prayed for well over an hour. Unprompted. Un-coached. Without additional encouragement or adult direction. It was one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen. Those kids prayed like they meant it!”

I believe those kids’ prayers had a lot to do with Jesse’s miracle. I’m so thankful for God’s mercy and faithfulness and the obedience of those children.

Eventually everyone will experience really tough times. That is life. When bad things happen and you’re asked to pray for someone, pray really hard.

Pray like you really mean it.

Pray like a kid.

 

Malta, 2000.

Diana and I were celebrating our 15th wedding anniversary in Malta. We were staying at the very luxurious Hilton in the St. Julian’s district of Valletta, the capital city. We were enjoying the seaside “endless” pools overlooking the Mediterranean and having a delightful time. I left Diana relaxing in the pool and went over to the sauna that was right at the poolside. I opened the door to the sauna, walked down to the opposite end and had a seat next to the steaming rocks. 5 minutes is usually about my limit. About 3 minutes into my Maltese sauna experience, a young woman walked into the sauna, wrapped in a large white towel. She took off the towel, politely folding it for a seat cushion, and sat down next to me. She did not have a single stitch on. Totally naked. She was from Austria and in Malta on holiday.

“This is not a good situation,” I pondered nearly audibly. “Probably a good time for me to leave.”

I started to stand up to leave and at that very moment Diana called out for me. She was right at the door of the sauna!  Panicking, I took stock of the situation. I reasoned if I acknowledged her call, she’d likely open the door and step into the sauna to join me and then she’d see the situation I was in. So I sat back down and did not say a thing.

Mercifully, I heard the pitter-patter of feet as Diana walked off, muttering, “Hmmm, I guess he’s in the locker room.” So, I sat there a little longer for what seemed like an eternity, certainly exceeding my 5 minute limit. Sweat poured off my body. Uncomfortable in so many ways. When what seemed a suitable amount of time had passed, I excused myself from my self-imposed hell, and stepped out of the sauna, looking to the left and right for Diana. The coast was clear. I went to the men’s locker room to shower and cool off. The sauna was exceptionally hot, after all.

I joined Diana in the pool a little later.

“Were you in the locker room?” Diana asked.

“As a matter of fact, I was,” was the technically truthful answer.

He was the short greasy little guy who lived upstairs from me when I was a junior at the University of Missouri-Rolla. It was 1984. He chain-smoked and “chain-cussed.” He smelled of body odor, stale tobacco and cheap cologne. He had shoulder-length greasy black hair, a pock-marked acne-scarred face and a smudge across his upper lip that may have seen the business end of a razor once a month or so. He was a gross little guy in a likable sort of way. He was my friend.

So, I invited him to church. He’d never darkened the door of a church. Not once. He had barely heard of the Gospel. After several invites, my new friend agreed to join me.

We walked into the packed little church one evening and found a few seats on the front row. My greasy little friend just sat there, taking it all in. He did not say a word. He didn’t sing. No apparent emotion. Half way through the song service, he reached into his backpack and pulled out a glass bottle of Coke. Twisting off the cap with a loud “pfffsssttt,” he began to sip his soda. “Okay,” I thought, “Not too big of a gaff. We can talk about it later.”

But then . . .

After he finished his Coke, he reached into his shirt pocket, popped out a pack of Marlboros, lit one up, and began puffing away, politely dropping ashes into his empty Coke bottle, all the while dutifully listening to the pastor’s sermon. The pastor just looked at my friend with a big grin and kept on preaching. Nice little smoke rings floated over the altar. I was mortified. I don’t think I heard another word of the pastor’s sermon.

After what seemed an eternity, the pastor gave an impassioned altar call and, to my amazement, my friend went forward and gave his heart to God. Tears of joy flowed down his face as he said a prayer of salvation. In gratitude, he lifted his hands and proclaimed:

“Thank you Jesus! Thank you Jesus! You’re so f#$&#ng wonderful!”

And then he proclaimed it again—loudly and passionately.

The pastor just hugged him. Even a few little old ladies hugged his stinky little neck. As for me? I just stood there, dumbfounded. I would like to say I rejoiced with him at that moment. But I didn’t.  I was embarrassed, concerned more about how his actions and words reflected on me. It wasn’t until I reflected on the whole experience the next day that I realized what had really happened. Beneath the veneer of my friend’s uncouth persona and actions was a heart reborn and a new creature genuinely expressing himself in the only manner he knew. The pastor had rejoiced with him. Those little old ladies had rejoiced with him.  I know the angels in heaven rejoiced as well. His praise was uncouth, uncensored, and raw but absolutely sincere.

It was perfect praise and God loved it. I am sure of that.

Spring 1998. We were winding our way up the mountain that loomed over Aviano, Italy. A little voice squeaked out from the back seat. Zoe, age 6, had a question.

“Dad, what’s this mountain called?”

“They call it Monte Cavallo. And the town at the base of the mountain is Piancavallo. We’re driving to Piancavallo.”

“Why do they name mountains?”

“I don’t know, Zoe. I guess they name mountains simply because they are there.”

“Oh . . . What’s the name of that mountain?” inquired Zoe, pointing to a hill just to the right of the car.

“I not sure it has a name, Zoe.”

“Why?”

“People generally don’t name hills, Zoe. They’re too little.”

“Why? I’m little and I have a name.”

She had a point. I pulled the car over.

“Zoe, do you like that mountain?” (pointing at the little hill)

“Yes.”

“Would you like to climb it?”

“YES!!”

Zoe and I got out of the car and scampered up the “mountain.” When we summited the hill, Zoe turned to me:

“Dad, I like this mountain a whole lot!”

“I’m glad you do, Zoe. Would you like to name this mountain?”

“Yes! I name this mountain, Zoe and Dad Mountain!”

She proclaimed it and so it was.

You won’t find it on a map, but it is there and it is our mountain.

 

The picture above was taken on the summit of Zoe and Dad Mountain to commemorate the event.