Three wooden crosses

Three wooden crosses.

The cup and the bread.

Struggles written on index cards.

People lined up to nail them to a cross.

The sound of hammer and nails.

Good Friday. Good, indeed.

Two car lengths at a time

I was out early this morning. It was so foggy I couldn't see more than a couple of car lengths ahead of me.

I drove those two car lengths and then I could see two car lengths further down the road. I drove those two and then I could see...well, you get the picture.

I never saw more than two car lengths ahead of me, all the way to my destination. The sun was up, but it was never more than just a dim blob. I could tell that it was there, but just barely.

The fog, my navigation through it, and the sun metaphorically reminded me of the journey of life. The sun is always there, though I don't always see it. I don't know what is three car lengths ahead of me, and if I'm not careful I can run off the road or head-on into someone else, especially if I think I know the way to my destination (since I'm so familiar with the route).

This metaphor also reminded me of a different perspective I received about this one night some time ago on a flight into Birmingham. On descent, while low enough to make out individual houses and cars but still high enough to see whole neighborhoods, I saw a car back out of a driveway and head down a street, its headlights shining on the pavement like thin ice cream cones in front of it. I could see to the end of the street while realizing that the driver could not. I could see the grocery store three blocks over that I imagined was his destination, while realizing that the driver could not.

Someone once described the difference in perspective of time between man and God as man standing on a sidewalk, watching a parade. Man sees the first band come into view, and then the next, and a couple of floats, more bands, some clowns, etc., until the end of the parade passes by. God, however, sees the beginning, middle, and end of the parade at the same time.

Every once in a while I get a glimpse of who I am and who He is, and the fog lifts, and I am grateful.

Mr. Potato Head

Children's eating habits are so enigmatic.

Lora is like a little chick pecking around the barnyard; she only eats a bite or two at a time, but she does it all day long. Rare is the meal where she doesn't want to sample off my plate. The exchange is usually thus:

L: What's that?
B: It's herb-crusted lizard brains in prickly-pear butter.
L: Can I have some?

If I sat down with a bowl of dirt, she'd want a spoonful.

Evan, on the other hand, is like a python; he eats one dish all in a big lump. We used to have a rule that he try everything once and what he didn't like he didn't have to eat. He just had to try it. We figured that if exposed to an assortment of foods he would build a vast menu of favorites. We were wrong. Were Evan a condemned criminal, his last meal request would be:

Chicken fingers
Spaghetti noodles (with butter)
Grits (with butter)
Potatoes (with butter)
Butter
Gatorade

It has been an exasperating experience for someone who enjoys food as I do. Growing up, I had a cousin who would circle my grandmother's potluck-laden table every holiday meal to score a piece of ham and a roll. I didn't understand picky eaters then; now I'm raising one.

Yesterday at lunch, Evan ordered a plain baked potato (a little cheese, a few chives, some bacon bits, and lots of butter) at [chain deli with the great salad bar]. Later in the afternoon, we were knocking around town when he reminded us of a play he wanted to attend. It was too short notice to take him home, feed him supper, and get him to the play, so Joan wheeled the family wagon into the parking lot of [chain faux-fifties ice cream parlor]. The drive-thru was backed up, so she handed Evan six dollars and sent him inside to buy his supper. He returned with drink and bag in hand, handing his mother two-seventy-five in change.

Lora, of course, wanted a sample of Evan's meal, which he, of course, declined to offer, so Joan intervened by ordering him to pinch off a bite of chicken finger for his sister (Joan, obviously concluding that he must have ordered chicken fingers based on years of precedence).

E: I don't have any chicken.
B: (shocked) No chicken? What did you order?
E: Large fries.
B: Large fries! You paid three-twenty-five for a coke and LARGE FRIES?!?
E: It's not a coke. It's sweet tea.
B: (bellowing) THAT'S BESIDE THE POINT!

I then gave him an economic lesson.

B: Your potato at lunch was six dollars, rounded off (Actually, it was two small potatoes crammed together to look like one large potato. They don't fool me.). Your potato at supper was three dollars, rounded off. So I paid nine dollars today for THREE potatoes. THAT IS THREE DOLLARS PER POTATO.

I was a raving lunatic on a spud-induced rant, the vicarious starch coarsing through my veins, raising my blood sugar to dangerous, apoplectic levels.

E: (with a twenty-five-cent french fry dangling from his greasy lips) Sorry.

And Dan Quayle thought he had potatoe problems.

Please forgive me, Willie Brown

I saw him across a sea of strangers in the crowded room, and I knew immediately that his name was Willie Brown.

Our assignment had been simple enough. Wrap glue-soaked yarn around an empty olive jar to make a vase, add a few "flowers" (egg-carton blooms, pipe-cleaner stems, and construction-paper leaves), draw a card, and address it to a resident of a nearby nursing home whose name we'd randomly drawn from a hat. I unfolded the slip of paper and read the name: Willie Brown.

One spring morning we walked several blocks down tree-lined residential streets to the four-lane highway that "bypassed" downtown. We crossed the highway and climbed the hill, behind the Ford tractor dealership and a local cafe' that served the best hamburger steak in town, to the nursing home.

The nursing home cafeteria was filled with old people and nurses, strangers all. We second-graders took our places against the wall to await instructions on how to distribute our bouquets. I nervously scanned the room and my eyes fell upon the man destined to be my partner.

He was old and black and sat in a wheelchair. He had lost both legs above the knee; his stumps weren't even long enough to hang over the edge of the seat. He was the most alien creature in the room and I was convinced that he was Willie Brown.

I became aware that the program had begun. Someone called out a name. An old person raised a hand. A second-grader peeled off the wall, delivered the gift, and then scurried back across the floor.

Agnes Andrews. Raised hand. Delivered gift.

Milton Baker. Raised hand. Delivered gift.

Willie Brown. Raised hand. The black man. In the wheelchair. With no legs. Of course. I had known it all along.

The wall would not let go of me. The room grew into a cavern. The floor became a desert and each step I took drained more energy from my parched body. There was silence, save for the snickers of my classmates, safe against the wall, staring at my safari to the stranger with no legs.

I finally made it across the room and I shoved the vase and card into the old man's hands. I ran back to the safety of the wall without ever making eye contact with him.

I was so afraid. I didn't know what to say. I couldn't relate to him on even the basest level. I was frustrated. Guilty. Ashamed. Inadequate.

I thought of Willie Brown today. I relived the same feelings as I dealt with a contemporary Willie Brown yesterday. Fear. Shame. Frustration. Inadequacy.

Willie Brown, wherever you are, I hope that someone crossed your path and made your life a little brighter before you moved on. I'm sorry I blew my chance.

Pity is, I don't seem to have learned from the experience.