Oh the Things You Can See in the Dominican Republic

Hola. It means “hello” in Spanish. I said it many times recently on my mission trip to the Dominican Republic. And fortunately or unfortunately for you, I will be sharing some of the highlights of my journey with you in the coming weeks. I’ll start this week by letting you know that I saw many sights in the D.R. I feel compelled to share them with you, in no particular order. RUB A DUB DUB- I witnessed three little children sitting in one small tub of water, nekkid as jaybirds. The tub was not much bigger than a family spaghetti bowl but somehow there they all sat, just hanging out, not bothering a soul. LIVING ON A PRAYER- A young man on a motorcycle in Vicente Noble successfully performed a “wheelie” which lasted approximately the length of two city blocks. At one point he was looking straight up in the air for several seconds. Though I think he did it to show off to the girls in our group, I was the person he impressed most. BORN TO BE WILD- While riding in our bus, I made note of every stop sign and speed limit sign we passed, all of which our driver completely ignored. I got the feeling the signs were intended merely as suggestions. By the way, none of the buses we rode in had working speedometers. And double yellow lines exist only as road decorations. TAKE THIS JOB AND SHOVE IT- In the capital city of Santo Domingo, brave souls weave in and out of the traffic on foot attempting to entice car riders to purchase items. Typically it was stuff like bottled drinks, sunglasses, and bananas, but my favorite was a guy whose hands were full of “rabbit ears”- the ones like we used to have on our televisions in the 70s. IT’S FIVE O’CLOCK SOMEWHERE- I came upon a group of men one afternoon who were playing dominoes and downing a local moonshine of some sort. When I asked one “amigo” if I could take a picture, he politely declined. The interpreter then explained that the man didn’t want his wife, who was working in the USA and sending him money, to see him on Facebook (or anywhere else online) drinking alcohol. So he handed the bottle to his buddy, who was more than willing to pose for a photo. HIT ME WITH YOUR BEST SHOT- I saw a man and his teen daughter fighting over a stand-up oscillating fan in the middle of the street one day. He wanted to take it the local pawn shop and sell it for beer money but she wanted relief from the 90 degree heat. After a few minutes of pushing and shoving, she ended up cool and he stayed sober. For one day at least. A LITTLE BIT OF SOAP- At a restaurant called Pollo Rey- the Dominican equivalent of KFC- my D.R. pastor friend pulled a small bottle of shampoo out of his back pocket in the bathroom and proceeded to wash his hair in the sink. Of the ten or so men in the bathroom, I was the only one who seemed to think this was unusual. And thus, I was alone in my hysterical laughter, which my friend didn’t seem to mind. That’s all. For now at least. Adios.

Time Moving Faster These Days so "Get With It"

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.

Class Reunion

My boys laughed at the picture on the refrigerator just as I knew they would. It had served as my nametag at my class reunion the night before and the picture on it was of me during my senior year in high school. I traveled to my hometown of Cherryville to attend the reunion of the classes of ‘80-‘83 recently. My cousin and I spared our non-native wives the unpleasant experience of attending our reunion and went as a couple. It worked out well though the folks taking up money at the front desk refused to give us the price break we felt we were entitled. Let me make it clear first off that I love my classmates and I will always feel a special bond with them. But reunions remind us of stuff that happened that we would rather not remember. Like my experience at the Fair in the sixth grade. There was a whole group of us and the expectation was that the boys would kiss their girlfriends while in the little cart inside the haunted house ride. Due to mass confusion at the entrance, I ended up in a cart with a boy I barely knew who had not at that point in his life showed any interest in girls. Luckily there was no kissing in the Spooky House that night but I saw him at the class reunion and it’s possible he’s still not interested in girls. Reunions also remind us of how the aging process affects humans. Most of us guys have less hair on our heads now and more protruding from our ears. And I suspect some of the girls get their hair dyed to cover up some gray, but I could be wrong. You can tell right away at a small town reunion which girls married guys from home and which ones married out of town. Those who married outside instead of within have funny last names that can be difficult to pronounce. Reunions remind us about the affects of alcohol. As the night wore on, some of the folks who had been hanging out in the bar area started bear-hugging folks and saying “I love you” to most anyone they encountered. One guy (not the one from the Fair) even kissed me on the cheek, despite the fact I’m not sure we’ve ever had a meaningful conversation. For the record, he is married. To a woman. But reunions, I think, remind us most of all about the choices we have made in life. What professions we pursued. Who we chose to marry. What things we consider significant in life. My choices have been far from perfect but as I drove home from the class reunion, I whispered a prayer of thanks to God. Thankful that I’ve grown in so many ways since 1982. Thankful that I wouldn’t trade my wife or kids for anybody else’s wife or kids in the whole world. Thankful that the boy on the Spooky House ride stayed on his side of the cart at the Fair thirty-four years ago. The young man on the refrigerator will always be a part of who I am. But even though he had much more hair than me, I wouldn’t trade places with him. I certainly treasure the past, but to be honest, I love the now.

Remembering Katrina and Sam

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.