Pomegranate

Thankful to have spent time with a child

I left you hanging last week, an occasional bad habit of mine. I’ll wrap it up this week. Promise. If you remember, nine years ago I met little Jessica while visiting the Connie Maxwell Children’s Home in South Carolina. We took to each other quickly and this nine-year-old with the “Angel” necklace stole the heart of a father of three boys. That father being me. On my final visit to the home, I watched as Jessica walked away and wondered if that was it for us. I decided then and there that it wouldn’t be. I invited the kids from Connie Maxwell Home to be my guests at a baseball game. We called it “Connie Maxwell Day” and little Jessica threw out the ceremonial first pitch. I was able to arrange for Jessica to attend a local high school cheerleading camp at one point. The director at the home told me it was one of the best days of her life. But alas I moved away from Greenwood, South Carolina in 2002. And through the years I have often contemplated where my little angel was and what became of her. . . While checking my emails a few weeks back, I saw the name “Jessica” in the message box. And when I clicked, I read these words as a golf-ball sized lump formed in my throat: “Hey Coach Stroupe, I was looking through some stuff and found a ball autographed from you. I do not know if you remember me or not but you made a huge impact on my life. When I was 9, you came to visit me at Connie Maxwell Children’s Home and I remember always being around you. You paid for a cheerleading camp and let me go to baseball games with you and you let me throw out the first pitch. I really looked up to you! My three sisters and I were adopted and I’m now in 12th grade and ready to graduate. It’s crazy how time flies by. Jessica” With a slightly shaking hand, I typed an email back to Jessica letting her know I could never have forgotten her. When her next email included some current pictures, I studied each photo over and over. Jessica isn’t little anymore. She’s a beautiful young woman with the same penetrating eyes. Our lives can sometimes be filled with reminders of mistakes we have made in the past. Memories of irresponsible actions and lost opportunities attempt to haunt us from time to time. But occasionally, a Jessica shows back up in our lives to remind us that God was using us even when we were young and immature by our current standards. And for those moments I spent with a child nine years ago, I am eternally grateful. My palms were sweating nervous beads the night I punched the numbers to call Jessica on the phone. We spoke for a few minutes, chatting about school, her new family, and her potential college choices. She sounded so grown up to me, probably because she is grown up. I held the phone and stared at it a few minutes after Jessica and I exchanged goodbyes. She is no longer my precious little Jessica, but she most certainly is still an angel. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- P.S. That is a current picture of Jessica at the top of this page.

For those of you who accessed my column a few days early this week, this is Jessica.

Girl Drama doesn't affect me much

I am the father of three boys. They are among the greatest joys in my life. I wouldn’t trade them for anything on this or any other planet. I accept that God did not mean for me to parent girls. I suppose in His wisdom He knew I would be a complete and utter pushover.

Fortunately for me, I have been blessed with some nieces along the way. And I’ve encountered numerous young ladies at schools, church, and even at my baseball camps.

Parents of females mention the term “girl drama” to me occasionally. I have little experience with that, though my boys are certainly capable of their own theatrics at times.

Either way, if you put me in a group of kids for any length of time, I am equally drawn to both the boys and the girls. And often- for a few moments- I get to be the pretend Dad of a young lady or two.

Take, for instance, an occasion nine years ago when the baseball team I was coaching visited a home for abandoned and orphaned children in Greenwood, South Carolina. Before I could get all the way through the door to the Connie Maxwell Home gymnasium, I had been adopted. I’ll never forget little Jessica and how this beautiful little nine-year-old ran straight over to me and decided that I was her personal companion for the day. She had me at “Hello.”

She skipped the wiffle ball game so she could sit on my lap and watch. She never really asked permission but simply plopped down on my knee and gave me a huge, unconditional hug every couple minutes. She wore a tiny bracelet around her neck that said “Angel” and I concluded rather quickly that it was an accurate portrayal of the treasure I was holding.

Her captivating eyes searched me as we conversed. She boasted that she wanted to be a cheerleader in college someday, and to prove her ability, she performed two routines for me on the spot. “I don’t know all the words, but I’ve got a lot of spirit,” she explained.

At one point she pulled my wallet out of my back pocket and rummaged through my family pictures. She wanted to know all about my three boys. “They’re perfect,” she said as she intently studied one particular picture. “I could teach them how to play ball if I lived at your house.”

She then explained how people were looking for her mother all across the country in hopes that someone could find her and bring her back to “be a Mommy again.” But in the meantime, Jessica informed me that she was willing to be adopted if someone was willing to take her and her sisters.

I visited Jessica a few times before I moved away a couple years later.

When my time with Jessica ended the last time I visited the Connie Maxwell Home, I watched as she clogged along in her oversized shoes toward the cottage where she lived. When I could see her no more, I stood frozen, realizing our trails would now diverge in opposite directions. But in those moments when our paths had crossed, this precious little angel had captured my heart.

Alas, there’s more to the story but it will have to wait a week to be told.

Trip to the dentist not my favorite event

Before I start I want to let you know that I don’t have anything against dentists. They went to school for more years than I did and they paid their dues. They earn well-deserved titles like dental hygienist, orthodontist, periodontist, pedodontist, and endodontist to name a few. Most of them are doctors. And I appreciate them. But there are very few things I enjoy about a visit to my dentist. Pain endurance is one of my least favorite activities, yet it always seems appear on my schedule when I’m lying back in that chair with the cushioned headrest. I discovered a few years ago that popping a couple of ibuprofens in my mouth before the visit can be helpful- but not foolproof. As soon as the automatic chair begins its final descent to the reclining position, I revert to a mental state referred to by many as “a personal happy place.” Because of the bright light they place above me, my eyes have no choice but to close, which I prefer. My mind travels to tropical beaches, the Grand Canyon, and snow-covered mountains. But it doesn’t last long. The sensations around me don’t allow for an active fantasy life. No matter how much I’ve brushed my teeth in advance, I’m certain the inside of my mouth produces an undesirable odor when poked and prodded. Not taking any chances, my hygienist always wears a mask, which I completely understand and support. My gums always bleed and I am an incredible salivator. “Wow, your glands sure do produce a lot of saliva,” they always say. I don’t know whether to be proud or embarrassed. Maybe it’s a gift, perhaps a curse. Either way, I end up spitting a lot in that little sink which resembles a miniature toilet, swirling water included. I have nearly drowned on several occasions when the teeth cleaners have forgotten to let me spit out. They only learn of my dilemma when they ask a question and the only reply I can produce is a gargle. Those little pointy things they use to scrape the gook off my teeth scare me. Of course I know better, but they feel like irritated ice-picks jabbing angrily into my gums. And that gritty paste they use to clean my teeth tastes like sand soaked in motor oil. But the heart of my dental office phobia is undoubtedly the sounds. The gurgling sounds like the ones you hear victims make in bad horror movies. The scraping of teeth that drives me crazier than thirty sets of fingernails simultaneously scraping a chalkboard. That high-pitched sound you hear when they grind your teeth that makes all the neighborhood dogs howl. And the dreaded drill sound from another room when you’re sure they are amputating various limbs from the poor soul next door. So, all things considered, you may wonder why I ever visit my dentist friends and their little instruments of destruction. I think it’s because I get a handshake, a laugh or two, and a new toothbrush every time I visit. But most of all, I experience the satisfaction of knowing I’ll be able to safely bite into a piece of meat or a ripe apple for a while longer. And that makes it all worthwhile, even if I depart with slobber all over my shirt.

Relieved that the election is over

I penned (computered) this column before election night on purpose to avoid any bias. Normally I’m as excited as a pig in slop during election season but not this year. This past election burned me out. They started the presidential election process way too early (two years ago) and even then, TV types argued about the dogfight between Rudy Guiliani and Hillary Clinton. A waste of airtime. And I just don’t know who to trust in the television media these days. All they do is holler at each other and say mean things about the candidate they don’t like. Even though everybody talks at once, they don’t say anything. In the old days, Walter Cronkite read me the news and I could have never guessed whether he was liberal or conservative. He would say “And that’s the way it is” and let me form my own opinions. The candidates nowadays present lots of facts, even when they’re fiction. And they fly around so much each day they slip up and forget what state they’re in. Debates used to be relatively civil- now they are boxing matches with the gloves off. The declared winners of debates are the ones who can rhyme the best. Dr. Suess could get elected these days. “I’ve got a wocket in my pocket that to gas prices will sock-it.” People say mean things about each other in commercials. And they show awful pictures of their opponents taken when they were half asleep and having bad hair days. We all hate negative ads but there’s a reason they use them. They work. The only good thing about all those political spots was that- for a while at least- I didn’t have to hear a bunch of guys in a circle in a barn singing the praises of Viagra during commercial breaks. Anybody else receive 14 phone calls in one day asking you to vote for their candidate? They don’t even have the decency to speak to me directly- they hire some computer voice to recite their name 7 or 8 times. I tried to tell the computer guy I had already voted early but he was totally indifferent time after time. And have you ever seen more women involved in the political process than this time around? Not that I’m complaining. Some of the best were females. And it used to be just guy analysts arguing. Now they’ve got those ladies on some show called “The View” shouting and calling each other’s mothers various sorts of bad names. And people eat it up. But I’m not a big fan of the process anymore. I prefer the “good ole days” when candidates kissed a lot of babies and told me what they would do to protect me if there was a mean bear in the woods. Candidates’ personal lives were largely private and nobody cared if they once ran a stop sign or gave somebody a wedgie when they were sixteen years old. In summary, I am proud to be an American and I deeply appreciate the privilege to vote, the opportunity to participate, and the freedom of the press to cover elections. I’ll never forget the sacrifices others made to afford us those rights. But for now, I’m glad this election season is over, despite the return of Viva Viagra to my television.

My wife and I went on a little trip recently. It was fall break at Gardner-Webb and I was asked to lead a group of GWU students on a short-term mini mission trip to Red Springs, N.C. Somehow I agreed and also volunteered my wife’s services. There were sixteen of us in all. Our assignments included painting classrooms in a church, leading a church service, visiting underprivileged children in a group home, and hosting a youth group in need of encouragement. These college folk didn’t seem to mind me calling them kids. In typical kid fashion, their conversations invariably reverted back to kid humor topics involving various bodily functions- belching being the least uncouth of these subjects. I have discovered that no matter what social class, educational level, or extent of spiritual commitment, young folk conversations will eventually explore the topic of gas. Add to that the reality that these night owls could wake the dead at night with their singing, shouting and silly shenanigans. Unlike my wife and I, they functioned well on three to four hours of sleep. But alas, I will complain nor pick on my new friends no more. These college kids were far too inspirational to ever illicit anything resembling a complaint from me. They were always willing and eager to serve. They cleaned and painted without complaint. Two of them got up every morning at 5:30 a.m. to fix breakfast for everyone. When it came time to pray, there was always a volunteer. Their patience was unprecedented. A combination of fuzzy directions, a partially functional GPS system, and my faulty sense of direction- led to our being lost (I prefer to call it being turned around) quite often. Instead of complaining or getting frustrated, they would jump out of the van at our turn-around-spot and take pictures next to road signs and landmarks. A hoot these kids were. They displayed their music, singing, and speaking abilities not only when they led the church service, but around the camp as well. Come to think of it, I didn’t mind being awaken to the sounds of “Our God is Mighty to Save” at 1:30 in the morning. And the hide and seek game they played til all hours of the night was called “Christians and Romans,” with Jesus being the eventual hero. With the minor exception of a few hilarious mucous references, the skits they performed were clean and wholesome. They displayed remarkable tolerance for their individual differences within the group, and for the ones they encountered in the community. At one point, they gathered in a circle in a McDonald’s parking and prayed for a man who was down on his luck- after making sure he received a meal inside. And when a gentleman from the local church gave them $160 to “go out and have a nice meal,” these selfless kids promptly gave the money away a few hours later to a youth group leader in need of some funds to jump-start a potential youth gathering. I’m glad we went on the little mission trip with the college kids. Sure, they may be uncouth at times, but I sleep well knowing they will be in charge someday. And I sleep especially well now that I’m back home and they’re not keeping me up half the night.