Wednesday, June 30, 2010

The Problem With Stereotypes

Glimmers

June 30,2010

Last month I had the opportunity to visit New York City for the first time. I went as part of a three-person training team sent by our denomination to teach at a church in Brooklyn. It was an eye-opening experience.

I used to think that if I met someone nice who was from New York, it was because they were from New York. Based on how New Yorkers are often depicted in television and movies, I assumed former New Yorkers must have had some sort of niceness conversion, a cultural epiphany or personality transplant to be so friendly. I thought all real New Yorkers glared menacingly and barked “Yo, what you lookin’at” and “You talkin’ ta me?” Last month’s brief visit to New York City blew a hole so big in my prejudice you could drive a battleship through it.

After spending the first day teaching at the East Flatbush Church of God, my fellow trainers and I returned to the hotel, changed clothes and headed out to Times Square. On the subway train, just after we passed Jamaica Station, it happened. The three of us, Vernon from Virginia, David from Iowa and I, were looking at subway maps and trying to figure out how best to get to Times Square. The young women in the blue work polo shirt asked, “Where are you wanting to go?” “Times Square,” David replied. We told her we wanted to get some famous New York pizza and see the famous landmark. She told us that 42nd St was the place to get off for Times Square, but if we wanted some really good pizza, we should get off on 52nd, turn right and about halfway down the block on the right, we’d find her favorite place downtown, Ray’s Pizza. We talked with her for a full thirty minutes until it was time for us to get off the train. Shockingly, she was not the last New Yorker we found to be friendly and helpful.

Two more times on successive trips to Manhattan, New Yorkers surprised me. On Friday night as we were transferring to a different train, we heard someone call out, “Hey, someone forgot their cell phone!” Slapping his pocket quickly, David discovered he was the one. Before the subway car doors closed, the nice New Yorker, after demanding he identify it, returned his cell phone to him.

Saturday afternoon, after seeing the sights in lower Manhattan and scooting up to Rockefeller Plaza, we headed through Grand Central Station to catch the subway to Canal Street so as to transfer to the J train and get back to our hotel near JFK. Noticing we looked a little confused, another nice New Yorker offered to help. “That train,” pointing to the Number 5, “might take you there.” “But this one," pointing to the Number 6, "I know will take you there.” She was from Upstate, but came to the city frequently. We thanked her, boarded our train and made it back in plenty of time for David to catch his 4:30 flight.

Prior to my trip, I would never have expected to meet New Yorkers who would go out of their way to help strangers, particularly three strangers with Southern accents (David from Iowa is originally from Alabama). My stereotypes were no match for real New Yorkers.

“What ya gonna do?” “Fogetaboutit.” Indeed.

Blessings to you all,

Jerald

Thursday, June 17, 2010

Father's Day; A tribute to Ernest Ezell Rathbone

Glimmers
Father’s day edition, 2010

A tribute to Ernest Ezell Rathbone, Jan 6, 1930 – June 11, 2010, on the occasion of his funeral.

I am proud to say that Ernest Ezell Rathbone was my father in law. I met Steve and David Rathbone at Lee College, long before I met Sherry or her Mom and Dad. I met them when I moved to Tampa to work at Riverhills Christian School, and considering my prior experiences of knowing David and Steve, I found Mr. and Mrs. Rathbone to be remarkably normal. (A little brother in law humor). Even before I met Sherry, they took an interest in me and encouraged me.

This week, I overheard my mother in law talking about Dad’s military service as a mechanic on B52s. She said pilots used to ask for him because they knew he would tell them the truth about the plane and whether or not it should fly. He was the same way at church.

When I met him, Dad was a leader at the Riverhills Church of God. He served on the pastor’s council and took that role very seriously. He was every pastor’s dream. He was insightful, respectful, candid and kind and would kindly let them know whether or not their proposals would fly. In all the years I have known him, I have never heard him say an unkind word or critical remark about any of his pastors. He held his pastors in the highest regard. Whatever disagreements he may have had with them, I never heard about them. As a former pastor, I can tell you that pastors love people like my father in law.

When Sherry moved back home to live with them, they started inviting me to lunch after Sunday church. At first I thought they were just being nice. I was a little slow in realizing they were hoping something would click between us. The scheme didn’t work at first.

After a brief move back to Tennessee from Florida, they returned to Tampa in January of 1980. When I heard they were coming back, I discovered all those dinners had a delayed effect. I met them at the house and helped them unload the truck. Sherry and I started dating and on Feb. 29, 1980 I asked her to marry me. That evening, after her parents had gone to bed, we woke them up to share our news. With a mischievous grin, Dad said, “Let me be the first to offer my condolences.”

God willing, Sherry and I will celebrate our 30th anniversary on July 12th this year. We have three daughters of our own, three great sons in law and two grandsons.

After our daughter, Candace, married Chris Hatcher, I learned how wise my father in law really was. On the way to work one morning, after I was feeling particularly bad about overstepping my bounds with Chris, I called him up. I said, “Dad, I just want to thank you for being a great father in law. Now that I am one, I realize how hard it really is.” He said, “Thank you.” That was it. “Thank you.” Not “what did you do and how could you have been so stupid.” Just “thank you.”

So with that being said, I’d like to share some sage advice, my “top ten” if you will, on how to be a great father in law from the best father in law anyone could ask for.

10. Never let the words, “You did WHAT?” cross your lips.
9. Always encourage your son in law. Dad took to calling me his “highly intelligent son in law” early on. After a while, I started believing it myself.
8. Be supportive. Dad and Mom both told Sherry that if she left me and came back home, they would put her and her bags out on the porch and send her back. It goes without saying that would not apply if I mistreated her in any way. He was a big man and I was, after all, highly intelligent.
7. Celebrate their successes- don’t dwell on their failures. He had plenty of opportunities to be critical, but he never was.
6. Don’t meddle. I am not as good at this as he was. I have had to apologize for overstepping my boundaries more than once. I had the wonderful privilege of officiating the wedding ceremonies for all my girls and at the last one, I gave all my sons in law express permission to let me know if I forget the “leave and cleave” part of their vows. He never had to be told. In that way, he was far more intelligent than I.
5. Give advice only when asked. Same as above.
4. Pray for them. He was a man of prayer and I knew at some point during the day, he’d be praying for me.
3. Trust that God is at work in the process. I was often frustrated in my early career as a pastor. I have made a lot of mistakes and made some unwise decisions. He always believed I would eventually figure things out. It took me a long time to find out that my gifts are best suited for hospital chaplaincy. His steady trust that God was at work helped me not give in to discouragement.
2. Be a good example. I knew him long enough to learn he had some flaws. We all do. But he was as sincere a Christian as I have ever met.
1. Finally, and most importantly, treat your son in law like a son. There is a beautiful theological concept called adoption in the Christian faith. The Greek term is huiothesia. It is a combination of huios, “son” and tithamie “to place or put” (If Dr. Arrington, professor of New Testament Greek, was here, he’d be so proud of me). It means to place as a son with all the rights and privileges of a natural born child. That’s how Dad made me feel. I didn’t just marry into the family, I felt like I had been adopted. I was not a natural born son, but I was loved like one.

My own father died when I was 12 years old. That’s a hole in a boy’s life that never gets filled. But I was blessed to know a man who became a father to me, who in so many ways and so many times became the love and grace of God to me. I am a better man for having known him.

Blessings to you all,

Jerald

Thursday, June 3, 2010

Flashbacks

Glimmers
June 3, 2010


I’ve been having flashbacks lately. They are not like the ones associated with post-traumatic stress. These usually make me smile. A couple of weeks ago, I was driving home from Melbourne, Florida in the early evening. The rain had just ended. The air was warm and so heavy it seemed you could wring the moisture out of it like a wet rag. Suddenly, in my mind, I was driving through a curve on Old Centerville Road outside of Tallahassee. It is pitch black except for the glow of my headlights, steam rising from the wet pavement. It was a warm summer night and I was heading home from the Halstead’s house in my 1965 purple Corvair. Yes,purple. It had black vinyl interior and an under the dash 8 track that I had installed myself in Gene Williford's backyard. It was my first car and it was ugly, but it had only cost me a few hundred bucks and I was happy have a car-any car. That’s the feeling that “flashed back,” happiness.

A few days later, I saw a man riding a bicycle on South Barna near where it meets 405 here in Titusville. He was on the sidewalk and turned sharply to follow the curvy sidewalk path. Now I am nine years old on my bicycle with the high handlebars and the banana seat. I am on the sidewalk on the main street that runs through Brooker, FL. In my mind I am opening the screen door of the general store. Across the hardwood floors, to the left of the one manual cash register with the big numbers is a little cooler full of Royal Crown colas and Yoo-Hoo Chocolate sodas. A quarter is all it takes to satisfy my longing. Happiness!

Last week I made my first trip to New York City. It was an amazing experience about which I have much more to say and I’m saving it for next week’s Glimmers. For now, I’ll share another flashback. At the East Flatbush Church of God, where I joined with two other training instructors for the Church of God Chaplains commission to teach for three days, I am standing beside the table with pastries, coffee and tea. There is a big pot of hot water for the beverage of your choosing. The coffee is instant, Folgers Crystals to be exact. And instantly, I am transported to the dining room table of our 12x60 mobile home. I am eleven years old and feeling much older because my mother has allowed me to have coffee, Folgers Crystals instant, with my toast and jelly before heading off to school. I savor it- the aroma, the flavor, the brief encounter with grown-up privilege. I am blissfully unaware of the gathering storm the next few years would bring.

Memories are precious things. They are the repositories of our past, the stuff of who we are. No doubt you have some painful ones, like me. But when you have flashbacks to the good ones, stop and revel in them for a while. It may help you remember who you are and why you’re here.

Blessings to you all,

Jerald