LifeVesting

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(A Turning Point Story) 

“I never thought the doors of a church would be locked,” said Danny Kincaid.  But locked they were.  So Danny spent the night on the church bus.  It was the only place he could find to put a roof over his head.

Danny was in his early 20s; I was in my early college years.  I met Danny after some other people (who weren’t exactly thrilled about his accommodations) met him first.  They introduced him to our youth pastor, who led Danny to faith in Christ.  He also offered Danny a place to stay – his own home – until he could get on his feet.  That’s where I came in. I was a youth ministry intern, and got to know Danny as he hung out with Willard and the rest of us.  Way too old for the youth group, Danny was a fixture around the youth staff as we practiced a version of “discipleship by hanging out.”

One day Danny and I were driving around town looking for him a job and place to live, and he told me a story that haunts me to this day.  When he was very young, through a series of circumstances beyond his control, he came to live with his grandparents.  I don’t remember why.  Maybe it was a divorce.  Maybe his parents died.  At any rate, Danny wound up growing up in South Carolina with a grandmother he still referred to as “Mommy.”

As Danny became a teenager, he went through the typical rebellious stages that most adolescents encounter – made all the more extreme because his generation gap was times-two.  He had a temper.  And a mouth.  And he knew how to flex both.

One day Danny and Mommy got into an argument, and it got pretty heated.  She said some things.  He said some things.  They got madder and madder.  Finally, Danny screamed out, “I wish you were dead!”  And he stormed out of their mobile home and slammed the door.

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Bret* was a Sherman tank.  Didn’t drive one; he was one.  He was ticked off – at me!  And he wasn’t in a mood to pout or negotiate.  He came with a verbal Uzi, convinced I had done him wrong, and he was going to let me know about it.  (For the record, he was wrong about me doing him wrong, but he was in no mood to hear it.  Or hear anything, for that matter.) 

Right in the middle of the tirade, as this hulk of a man was blowing me away, I had this surreal experience.  It was the Lord, I believe, speaking to me.  “Just let him finish.  With everything he has to say.”  So I did.  I just sat there and took it.  I didn’t like it.  I didn’t like his attitude.  I didn’t like his complete blindness to the facts.  But I took it.

“Is there anything else?”

“No, that’s about it,” he said very gruffly.

“Okay, well I’m very sorry you feel that way.  I’ll see to it that you never feel that way because of me again.”

That was 11:00 a.m.  At 2:00 p.m., the phone rang; it was Bret again.  Totally different story.

“Man, I just want you to know, I’m on your team.  I so appreciate you.”

I quickly ruled out the possibility of demon possession, mental illness (that one took a bit longer), or bribe money.  No, Bret had just emptied himself of his poison.  And he meant it.  He was on my team.

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The question was relevant and greatly needed.  A wife in couples counseling once asked, “How do I deal with resentment so that I don’t explode at my husband and say things I’ll regret?”

“You toss the Oreo,” I replied.

To their honestly-delighted quizzical looks (she loved Oreos), I explained:

Here’s a communication technique that can help you communicate your feelings and ask for your partner’s help.  I call it “tossing the Oreo.”  And no, I don’t mean getting mad and hurling cookies at your spouse!

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A Turning Point Story

This is for all you jocks, coach dads, and soccer moms out there who never were in the band or had a kid in one.  Other than my year of football futility, the primary point of my non-academic energy was spent in the band.  And during football season, I got to wear the fuzzy hat.  Yep, I was the drum major – the band’s field director during my junior and senior year. 

The high point of marching season was traveling to either the Florida or Mississippi coast to participate in a regional band contest.  Can you imagine the energy, the excitement that fills a stadium when more than 30 bands gather and perform, with no football team in sight for miles?  Unlike football games, where half the crowd heads for the concession stands, at a contest people in the stands cheer loudly for every slick move, every powerful burst through the line.  And did I mention that there isn’t a football team in sight?

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One hundred years ago - November 25, 1907, the Mobile Press Register printed the following report:

“Yesterday afternoon about 2 o’clock Jim Wilson , chauffeur for Mr. Louis Forcheimer , while driving the automobile of Mr. Forcheimer to the garage on St. Joseph street, passed the Bienville Hotel corner at a rate of speed which (he) himself said was not over ten miles an hour, when the speed limit is eight. He narrowly escaped running over a little son of Mr. George Hervey , who was crossing the street. … The complaint was made to Steward Jack Dair , who located (the driver), and Wilson was placed on the docket to answer the charge of furious driving.”

How’s that for road rage? Needless to say, we’ve changed the rules. It makes me wonder what “furious driving” will look like a hundred years from now: Read the rest of this entry »

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