Oh the Things You Can See in the Dominican Republic

Welcome to my page. It contains writings by me, a self-proclaimed hopeless amateur. I am a father of three and husband of one who used to coach baseball for a living but now I'm a college professor, ordained pastor, and I pretend to be a writer as well. Read on if you're adventurous. Click the follow button to keep up with me if you dare.
I’ve always heard that as you get older, time moves faster. In the past I have scoffed at such silliness. But recently I collided head on with that very reality. I was standing at my bathroom sink placing my vitamins for the week into the seven separate compartments designed to organize my daily allowances, which seem to increase annually. As I began placing the pills into their slots, my mind emitted signals indicating that I had completed this very task two days before. And at first, I believed it. Then I realized it couldn’t be true, mainly because all the slots were previously empty, a sure-fire indication that it had been a full week since I had filled them. For the first time in my life, I realized the old saying was true. Time does move quicker as we get older. A week feels like two days. The full moon seems to be out every 10 days or so. And a new year loudly bursts on the scene while your ears are still recovering from “ringing in” the previous one. Take, for example, this whole column writing thing I do. As of this week, I have been at it for eight years now. That’s over 400 columns. Yet I’m certain I wrote my first one a few short weeks ago. But as I look back over some of my previous columns, I realize my oldest son- who is now a senior in high school- was the subject of many of my columns when he was in elementary school. I tell you all this not to complain, but rather to remind you (and me) that life truly is short. In 2001, a year before I moved back to North Carolina, while lying in bed one night, I realized I was another year older and I still hadn’t given my writing a chance. I had a secret desire to write columns and such, but for years had lacked the guts to throw it out there and see what would happen. The time had come for me to “get with it.” The next day I met up with an editor friend of mine and handed him a manila envelope with some of my writing inside. The rest, as they say, is history. So what is it that you’ve been putting off? Have you, like the unfaithful servant, taken some desire God has placed in your heart and buried it in the ground? Are you scared someone will make fun of you or that you’ll be told you’re a dreamer? Or that you will fail? Personally I think it’s worth the risk. Pick up that guitar and strum it. Dust off that piano keyboard and let the melodies flow. Pull out that old paint brush and stroke with it. Update the virus protection on your computer and fill your hard drive with stories and ideas. Thread the eye of the needle and sew something beautiful to wear. Put on your hiking boots and scale that mountain you’ve always dreamed of conquering. Dig up your tools and tinker with that old engine you’ve been wanting to fix. Leave the comfort of your pew and give your testimony before the church. Don’t let another day pass. Days can quickly add up to a lifetime of what ifs. Get with it.
Prime time TV was dominated recently by shows honoring the fifth anniversary of Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath. Thoughts of that time in my life five years ago flood my mind now as I recall where I was and what I was doing then. A few days after Katrina struck, I hitched a ride on a bus from a neighboring church and ended up in Laurel, Mississippi. In return for my service there, I received a healthy dose of love, friendship, and Christian hope. I spent most of my time there with a local named Sam. He was an 86-year-old black man and I was 41 at the time. Sam grew up as a farmer. I grew up as a shortstop. Yet we got along quite well together. In his red and gray half ton Dodge Ram truck, Sam escorted me to his neighborhood, one of the poorest in Laurel, explaining how tough it was for folks there. We visited and checked on folks in several houses, each seemingly in a more desperate situation than the previous one. As we pulled away from one particular house, Sam reached his breaking point. He stopped his truck in the middle of the road, put his face in his hands and sobbed like a baby. For a few awkward moments, I simply watched and listened as an 86-year-old man cried. 86-year-old men aren’t supposed to cry. They deserve to be enjoying every precious moment they have left. I reached over and comforted Sam with a hand on his shoulder and a few words of reassurance. I sensed at that instant I was living in a holy moment. Two men from different backgrounds, of different ages, and whose skin color didn’t match, were bound by the same Holy Spirit. For a moment, I felt as if God was physically present in our midst in a way I have rarely experienced in my lifetime. I returned to Laurel a week or so later to help distribute more supplies for folks in Sam’s neighborhood. Sam wiped a tear from his eye at one point and assured me that God had sent me there and had brought us together for a reason. Sam and I spoke by phone only once after my last visit to Laurel but I thought of him constantly. Spending time with him and soaking up his wisdom had permanently enriched my life. Four months after Katrina I got a card in the mail from Sam’s wife. My friend’s journey on this earth had ended and he was at home with his Father in Heaven. Yet my eyes did not fill with tears and my heart didn’t sink. Instead a smile crossed my face as I remembered Sam and his desire to see and experience Heaven. He lived 86 tough but wonderful years and until his dying breath, he was serving others and was as joyful and peace-filled as any human on earth. What else could one ask for? Katrina is now a bad word and hardly anybody names a daughter after her. Understandable. But when I hear of Katrina, I choose to remember Sam and my other friends in Mississippi who thought I was touching them, but who in actuality touched me in a way I will remember for the rest of my life.