Hope for the next generation

I will explore a common theme this week. The younger generation. You remember them- they are the ones we constantly bash- calling them lazy, irresponsible, spoiled, and unappreciative. And I always remind you that you don’t have to look too far to find young folks who fit those descriptions. But to brand the entire youthful generation as incompetent and the potential ruination of civilized society is an accentuation of the negative, says me. I take up for the kids because I’m still one of them at heart. And also because I enjoy hanging around them. Yes, they can be silly, immature, and socially unacceptable. Most of them think nothing of breaking wind not only in front of each other, but also in public settings where thirty years ago, one who committed such a faux pas would have wilted from embarrassment. It’s mostly the boys but in these trying times, even the girls have gotten in on the act. And it astounds me. The “pull my finger” trick notwithstanding, I’m still unwilling to jump on the “Bash the Kids” bandwagon. That’s because I’ve seen them in action. Recently I spent a week with over 200 “lazy, incompetent, irresponsible, dispassionate, and inconsiderate” kids who gave up a week of their summer vacations to serve on a mission trip. On that mission trip- which they paid to go on- they worked five days in the scorching Georgia sun repairing houses for those who couldn’t afford to help themselves. They scraped, painted, roofed, repaired, hammered, and nailed. Up by 6 a.m. each morning, they spent their days working and their nights praising and worshipping. And for the third straight year, I was impressed. And blessed. My squad was comprised of two adults and five youth. By the end of the week we were a family. Katie Beth, Autumn, Haylee, Cameron, Jeremy, Rev Kev, and I spent the last evening of the trip handing out kudos to each other. These kids worked and worked without complaint, despite temperatures in the 90s. Haylee told everybody she came in contact with that Jesus loved them. Katie Beth was first in line when we visited folks in the hospital. Cameron prayed some of the most beautiful prayers a teen could utter and Jeremy said the blessing for the group lunch despite his obvious discomfort with praying out loud. Autumn took our leftover bag lunches to the folks in the neighborhood where we were working and distributed the food to people who probably hadn’t had lunch in a while. Rev Kev and I watched in amazement. And I wish you could have seen how the kids treated Ms. Edna, the lady whose house we were working on. They insisted we buy her some hanging plants from Wal-Mart. The kids told her they loved her and offered her their time and their prayers. When Ms. Edna told them she loved them the last day, I knew she meant it. And when I told them the same thing a few hours later, they knew I meant it. This generation is not doomed. The future, should we choose to be patient with the younger generation, does hold promises of hope. God bless you, younger generation. Maybe you deserve much of the criticism people toss your direction. Just don’t expect to catch any of it from me.

Off to the Dominican

(Alex and me in 2005)-------- By the time you read this, I’ll be on my way to the Dominican Republic, God willing. I’ll be there on a mission trip for a week, so expect a column in a few weeks about my experiences there. If it’s anything like my trip in 2005, it will take more than one column to describe it all. In case you’ve forgotten, I met up with a young man named Alex when I visited last time. He drove our team around in a truck. I usually sat up front with him due to my fear of falling off the back of trucks, which I did when I was 16 years old. Ouch. Anyway, Alex and I developed a brotherly relationship of sorts. We sang, we hummed, we laughed. He saved my rear end at a military checkpoint when I had forgotten my passport. The one thing Alex and I didn’t share was a conversation. They speak Spanish in the Dominican. I took French in high school. Yet Alex and I communicated. I can only tell you that this connection we experienced was a direct result of the Holy Spirit, which God is in charge of, not me. Alex dreamed of becoming a pastor. That dream has come true. Earlier this year I got an email from Alex (someone translated for me) asking for help. The little church he pastors is in need of Sunday school classes and they need financial help and workers to make it happen. Three Stroupes along with nine members of my church are on our way to help as best we can. My construction knowledge is limited, considering that I struggle even with Legos. But that’s not the main point. We will arrive with open hearts and willing hands and we’ll let the locals show us what to do. I have tried to learn some Spanish in the past few months. On those long bus rides during baseball season, I have cornered trainers, players, and assistant coaches- or anyone else who would listen to my pronunciations- and forced them to carry on conversations with me. With as much objectivity as I can manage, I will tell you that I stink at Spanish. First of all, my French keeps getting in the way. Add to that a Southern dialect and you can see why I am concerned, despite the fact we will have interpreters there. My number one goal is to carry on a conversation with Alex, which I will attempt to do in person. It didn’t go so well on the phone when we finally connected recently. We both ended up laughing as we realized our attempts to communicate were largely fruitless. But at least we tried. I’ve listened to the tapes, read the little picture books, and even watched the Spanish Network on local cable Channel 63 a few times. There’s a Jerry Springer-type show on there that I’ve grown attached to even though they talk too fast when they’re hollering at each other. Alex has asked that I speak in his church four different times throughout the week. That should be interesting. Maybe God will lend his Holy Spirit again to help with the translation. I’m counting on it. And so is mi hermano (my brother) Alex. Hasta la vista.

Celebrities Gone But Not Soon Forgotten

The world bade several celebrities goodbye last week. Ed McMahon of “The Tonight Show” fame died. Two days later Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson left us. And three days afterwards Billy Mays of infomercial and OxyClean fame passed on. Of course I didn’t know any of these folks personally, but when someone achieves celebrity status, they sorta become part of your life- and you feel a certain kinship with them. Except for Mays, the aforementioned accompanied me through childhood, puberty, adolescence, and early adulthood. McMahon introduced me to “Johnny” on those nights when I snuck and stayed up too late. He was a loyal guy who played second fiddle without objection or resentment. I kinda liked that quality in him. And Farrah’s performances on “Charlie’s Angels” on Wednesday nights assured that the boys around our 7th grade lunch table had lively conversation every Thursday. Said Farrah on one occasion, “When the show was number three, I figured it was our acting. When it got to be number one, I decided it could only be because none of us wears a bra.” This was a topic of much debate at lunch. You wouldn’t dare show up at school on Thursday without having watched the Angels the night before. It was a social must. Thus I never missed an episode that year, including reruns. And Farrah’s famous bathing suit poster hung proudly above my bed, temporarily replacing Willie Stargell and Roberto Clemente of my beloved Pittsburgh Pirates. And then there was Michael. Despite the fact that he was five years older than me, we grew up together. I remember watching Michael Jackson and his brothers on a Saturday morning cartoon show where they sang and danced their way in and out of every conceivable cartoon situation. And one fine Saturday afternoon, my parents dropped me off at the old Lester Theatre in my hometown of Cherryville and I choked back tears as Michael developed a curiously heartwarming relationship with some sort of rodent (either a mouse or a rat) named Ben. As we grew up, MJ broke loose from his brothers and began to sing and dance more by himself. He showed up at our high school dances after football games singing “I Wanna Rock With You” and “Don’t Stop Til You Get Enough.” Michael went with me off to college singing “Pretty Young Thing” and “Beat It” and eventually the whole “Thriller” thing dominated our radios and music television stations. About the time I got married, MJ started acting a little strange. His music remained inspiring with songs such as “Man in the Mirror” and “Heal the World,” but people were starting to question his bizarreness, even calling him Wacko Jacko when they discovered his best friend was a monkey with whom he shared a toilet. Michael’s legal troubles and unusual physical appearance undermined his public image for the rest of his life. Despite arguably being a bit misguided, I think the guy meant well. I don’t know what all happened in those legal cases- he has to answer for that. But his music seemed to cry out for peace and understanding among all people. I will miss Ed, Billy, Farrah, and Michael. Each for different reasons. No doubt they

School's Out for the Summer

Scan the radio long enough and you’ll hear it this time of year. A song written and sung by someone named Alice Cooper, who for the record, is a guy. I heard “School’s Out For the Summer” on the radio the other day and later saw Alice performing it on television. The song debuted in 1972 and I remember it well. Having successfully conquered second grade, it was time to cut loose. Don’t get me wrong. I liked school and didn’t complain about going. But there’s something about that last day. Ah, free at last. Every year of my youth it was the same story on that exhilarating first day of summer. Incidentally, every kid knows the first day of summer is not June 21. It’s the first weekday that there is no school. On that day- after sleeping late- my brother and I were transported to the local hangout in my hometown of Cherryville and told we would be picked up sometime in mid-August. (Only a slight exaggeration.) That hangout was called Club Carolina and it had everything. Baseball field, playground, putt-putt, shuffleboard, basketball, tetherball, ping-pong, horseshoes, snack machines, and a huge swimming pool with a high dive. There were very few adults around. Most of the lifeguards were teenagers and the majority of kids were dropped off by their parents. Couldn’t get away with that today, but things went remarkably smooth now that I think about it. The few adults in charge did an incredible job running and managing the place. The first day of summer vacation was the best. We exited the car, bade Mom farewell and sprinted to the main attraction. No, not the swimming pool with the high dive. The coveted object of our affection on that first day was the jukebox. And the day’s star was Alice Cooper. It would cost you a Snickers bar later in the day, but for a dime, you could press the magic buttons that allowed Alice to remind everyone present that there were “no more pencils, no more books, no more teachers’ dirty looks. School’s out forever!” Exaggerated and over the top, but sentimental nonetheless. And glorious. Alice himself claims that the most exciting three minutes in a child’s year are the three minutes before he goes to the tree on Christmas morning and the last three minutes of the last day of school. Euphoric. . . but temporal. Within a week or two, the lyrics of “School’s Out” became less and less prevalent on the jukebox as kids began saving their dimes for chocolate. By July 4, Alice and his song were obsolete. By the beginning of August, we realized Alice had lied to us. School was not out forever. It was about to crank up again. And though we would never admit it to our friends, we were actually relieved. Like the song, sleeping late and doing the same flips off the high dive over and over had become monotonous. And if you popped a dime in the jukebox and punched Alice’s number in early August, you were bombarded by the crowd and given an atomic wedgie. Lesson learned. Nothing lasts forever. Except for Alice Cooper’s song, which once every year, has its three minutes of distinction and then is placed back in the vault. Until next June.