Footprints

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

As I stepped off the curb I punched the button on my stopwatch to begin the monitoring of my morning walk. The goal is four miles in an hour. At the two-mile mark if I am ahead of time I slow down and if I am behind, I speed up for the remaining two miles. For six in the morning the day was already beginning to heat up. I was thankful for light raindrops falling on my face. Putting on my headset I cranked up the volume to the song “Georgia Rain” which was befitting the occasion. While lost in thought during my walk, a sweet familiar fragrance drifted over me. Instantly I knew that the smell was coming from the pink flower of a mimosa tree.

We had a mimosa tree in our front yard when I was growing up. I stepped over to the tree and took a deep breath. With that breath came memories marching around in my mind. I won’t bore you today with any of those memories other than to say they are precious to me. Many hours of my life were spent out there in the shad of that tree. As I stepped back onto the sidewalk from the damp grass to continue my morning walk, I looked behind me and saw that my wet shoes were leaving footprints on the concrete. Within six or seven steps the footprints began to fade. I was still walking on the sidewalk, my tennis shoes were still making contact with the concrete but there was no visible evidence being left behind.

The music in my headset began to fade from my consciousness as I began to reflect on all the people who have walked across my life and left footprints on my heart. Many of those people are no longer physically close to me but their influence on my life is still present. I am thankful for the invisible footprints that continue to lead me in my life.

The familiar fragrance of the mimosa tree drew me back in my mind and helped those early footprints become visible once more. Mark Twain once said, “ I am a part of all I have met.” How blessed I am for those I have met. How blessed we are to be able to choose the best part of all we meet. My experience this morning brought about a desire to walk more tenderly through life. Whether my footprints are visible or invisible, I desire that they lift, encourage, carry and lead. But most importantly, I want my footsteps to follow in the steps of those who have been such a positive influence on me.

Chasing a Sunset

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Stepping out of the building where I had attended a New Testament class with the young adults of my church, I looked to the West and saw what was the making of a beautiful sunset. Without any mental bantering of what was the best way to spend the next few minutes of my life, I hurried to my car and headed for the airport.

Opening the hangar door, I shoved my plane into the open air and without so much as a preflight inspection I fired up the engine and headed toward the West, the setting sun. I climbed with all the power my plane could produce until I reached 18,000 feet and chased the setting sun. Gradually the disappearing ball of fire outran me so I winged over and headed for home, descending back through that same air space I had just traveled.

I was flying out over the Great Salt Lake. The air was calm and I was alone with my music, my thoughts and the drum of the aircraft engine. My favorite country western artist was singing her lyrics in my headset but she was not the person I shared that sunset with. I often ask my daughter whom she sees in her sunsets. At first she was puzzled by the question but then she understood.

Whether a beautiful sunset or some other event or activity stirs your emotions, reach for it and share it with your special someone even if that someone is beside you only in your mind.

Last Goodbyes

By Mack Grubbs
 
As we flew home from a family gathering in Washington we settled in for the flight and my family members were soon enjoying a nap. I plugged some music into my aviation headset and began to listen and let my mind drift. Much of country western music is about saying goodbye. I thought of the goodbyes we had just exchanged at the airport before heading for home. Since today was about goodbyes my mind began to focus on last goodbyes. I didn't realize at the time they were occurring that some of my goodbyes were last goodbyes. Saying goodbye to Karen Young, my high school girlfriend, when I left for the mission field was supposed to be "till we meet again" but it wasn't. Other goodbyes were the last time I visited my grandparents before their deaths. Then there was Bill McMahan who died unexpectedly. He and I had a prepaid hunting trip to take that would never be. I reflected on the last time I spoke with him, his laugh, and his mischievous smile.

Life can and does take unexpected turns. Some of those turns appear without any warning or signals. Each of the goodbyes I mentioned above were meant to be "till we meet again" goodbyes. I didn't realize that they were actually "till we meet beyond this life" goodbyes. On June 5th, 2000, I dropped by Karen Young Frady's home and defied the goodbye we shared some thirty-five years earlier. We had a pleasant visit on her front lawn. As I started to say goodbye once again, she said, "Don't say goodbye. Say, till we meet again." At her request, I uttered those words but I knew I was saying goodbye.

Sometimes goodbyes are okay but what I look forward to are the "hellos." The day I get to say hello to those I have had to say goodbye to is a day I look forward to. A favorite poem of mine suggests that when there are more people we are looking forward to saying hello to than there are people left here to say goodbye to, death will not be so painful, so dreaded. I'm not to that point yet but I sure miss those who have had such an impact on my life and are not around to hold, enjoy visiting with and express appreciation to. Maybe the key is to hold that special person, enjoy sharing time with him or her and express love and appreciation before that last goodbye occurs whether it is truly a last goodbye or just "till we meet again." You can make a difference in their life and yours.

Situational Ethics

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

On November 28, 2003, the day after Thanksgiving, I boarded a plane for Columbia, South Carolina. I was on my way to attend a memorial service. I had a forty-five minute layover in Atlanta, Georgia. I overheard a man pleading for help while I was in the restroom of the Atlanta Airport; I came around the corner of the restroom partition to get a better view of the problem. The man asking for help informed me that he had the head of a tick imbedded in his groin area. He was fearful of contracting Lime's Disease before he could get to his doctor to have the tick's head removed. He could not see to do the task himself because of where it was located. I couldn't understand what he was so concerned about but it wasn't my groin or my tick. It is easy to disassociate yourself when the problem belongs to someone else.

I knelt down to see if I could help. It is funny now as I think back and try to remember what the two of us must have looked like: him with his pants down to his knees and me kneeling in front of him trying to find the head of that tick. It was difficult to extract the head of the tick with no sharp tool or knife to work with. The airline industry was not allowing any sharp objects on board the aircraft since the 911 attack. He survived my probing and gouging, pulled up his pants and went on his way to catch his connecting flight and I resumed my journey to Columbia. I chuckled to myself as I thought of another encounter I had with ticks long ago.

Years ago my brother Bill, my cousin Lana, and I were down in the west pasture of Granny's home playing along the creek bank. We realized we were covered in tiny creatures crawling all over us. We would later discover that those little creatures were sand ticks. We ran to the house to get help from Granny. She took us into the garage, made us remove all our clothes, and then she bathed us all over in gasoline. It burned like the dickens. I'm sure you know what "the dickens" means.

This was my earliest recollection of what I would later come to recognize as "situational ethics." Just a few weeks prior to this experience, Bill, Lana and I had received the "big lecture" for going skinny-dipping in the creek. Mother said we were too old to be taking our clothes off in front of members of the opposite sex. I was scratching my head and thinking about what mom had said in that lecture and there we were bare naked in front of Lana again. I guess it was okay to take our clothes off in front of Lana if an adult told us to but it wasn't okay if we made our own decision to remove our clothes. Adults must have a tough job keeping all these rules straight: the when you can and when you can't of life.

Well, I got the head of that tick out of the man's groin in the Atlanta Airport restroom and I finally figured out it is okay to take your clothes of in mixed company if you are covered in ticks. These are my tick stories and I'm sticking to them, much like a tick sticks to you if he is given a chance. You will have to decide what you get out of the story. My wife Kaye has a fire ant story she could share with us and she certainly came out of her clothes right there in front of mixed company.

Worth the Risk

By Mack Grubbs

Withering in pain from smashing my finger, I heard the words from inside my head, “Buck up and take it like a man.” Gritting my teeth, taking deep breaths and moaning softly, I did take my pain like a man. As the initial moments passed, the sharpness of the pain began to subside. Putting my finger in my mouth actually seemed to help soothe the throbbing. I knew that ice would be a better solution but at the moment I just wanted immediate comfort.

Another time when I just wanted comfort was on a fairs wheel at the Gilmer Yamboree. I don’t actually remember the experience but I feel as though I remember because of the vivid recollection my mother has of the event. Gilmer, Texas is where I was born and spent the early years of my life. TheYamboree was a county fair that set up right in the town square and for a few days our lives were transformed by the rides, the lights, cotton candy, tent freaks and games of chance. As the years passed and we moved away from Gilmer, we always returned to enjoy the Yamboree with our extended family.

As a four year old, my Aunt Lela took me on the fairs wheel for what she thought would be a great thrill for me. From the moment the operator pushed the lever and the fairs wheel started to spin, I began to scream with a cry that brought my mother running. She begged the operator to stop and let her take me off the fairs wheel but he refused. I creamed until the ride stopped and Lela returned me to the arms of my mother. Nothing would console me until I was back where I felt safe.

Where physical pain can be medicated to the point its sharpness can be dulled, emotional pain is more difficult to soothe. I can pack my bruised finger in ice or even hold it in my mouth but where can I place my emotional hurt? I can’t put it in my mouth to be soothed or pack it in ice. Even if I temporarily push that pain deep down in a dark crevice of my mind, when I least expect, it will rise back to the surface and squeeze my heart with a pain that only time can dull.

There are blessings that come with pain. Physical pain helps you learn to be more careful where you put your finger. Experiencing emotional pain reveals that you were willing to place your feelings at risk. The person who has never experienced emotional pain has never shared enough of their innermost feelings to become truly connected to another human being. My earliest recollection of emotional pain came in the fourth grade. I was in love with my teacher, Miss Mormon, at Valley View Elementary. I was going to marry her when I grew up. She was the prettiest person I had ever seen and she showered me with attention. Mother tried to tell me that it was not possible for my dream to materialize but I refused to listen.

During those blissful days of the fourth grade, my heart was shattered like a crystal vase with the announcement that Miss Mormon was getting married and would be taking a two-week leave of absence for her honeymoon. I didn’t know what a honeymoon was but I was sure I wasn’t going to like the answer mother would give me when I got home. I refused to accept the fact that she would betray my dreams. I never called her by her new married name but continued to refer to her as Miss Mormon no mater how many times she corrected me. I never asked about her honeymoon either.

Although my relationship with Miss Mormon was totally a product of my imagination, the pain was still real. I would have gladly traded my emotional pain for a smashed finger that I could poke into a bag of ice to diminish the throbbing. But not even the loving arms of my mother could console me this time. No rescue came from the emotional fairs wheel I was riding with the loss of my dream of marrying Miss Mormon. I had opened my little naive heart and only time would heal the open wound. My injury would have to heal from the inside out.

Today, these many years later, I can still close my eyes and see Miss Mormon standing before our class dressed in her white blouse and yellow skirt as she introduced us to her future husband. I disliked him immediately. With time that dislike mellowed, as did my hurt over Miss Mormon’s betrayal of our future together. That experience taught me that emotional pain is survivable. It is not only survivable but also healable. It takes more time to heal than a mashed finger or a frightening ride on a fairs wheel. My memories of Miss Mormon are cherished. What I learned along that part of my journey of life became an inspiration and strength to me. I healed from that pain and learned that the rewards of risking the heart are worth the potential future pain that might follow.

Should you think my story is a product of fiction just check out the index finger on my left hand. You will find the evidence of the blood spot under my fingernail and the need I had at that time to “buck up and take it like a man.” I plan to be more careful where I place my finger in the future but I will continue to share my feelings and risk my heart. It’s worth the risk.

Dressed

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

The word “egg” is a noun. When you take that noun and throw it at someone, the word becomes egged. The word “dress” is also a noun. When you put that noun on someone, the word becomes dressed. As a young Cub Scout, the thought of being dressed in a dress was more distasteful than having rotten eggs hurled at you from a passing car. You could always wash the egg off. You could even throw away the soiled clothes if necessary. But for a young boy to be caught wearing a girl’s dress would be unbearable. We played cowboys and Indians, climbed tall trees, dared each other to do risky things, even chased hogs around the mud wallow, but we never put on a dress and pretended to be a girl.

At least no one in our Cub Scout troop wore a dress until the cub master, my mother, decided that we were going to put on the play, The Wizard of Oz. Our troop had a big problem. The principal character in the story was Dorothy. Dorothy was a girl, a girl who wore a dress. No one wanted to play the part of Dorothy. Mother almost had a mutiny on her hands. Each Cub Scout scrambled to put dubs on one of the other parts. I chose the part of the lion. I didn’t care that the lion had lost his courage. Any part would be better than having to wear that Dorothy dress in front of all my friends. The lion would eventually get his courage back. How could you ever overcome having worn a dress? Whoever had to wear that dress would never live down the shame.

Mother said it was just a play and no one would remember a cub scout wearing a dress. I didn’t believe her and I told her I would run away and live in the woods before I wore a dress. She knew I was serious because mother also knew how petrified I was of the woods in the dark of night.

By some form of bribery or trickery, a secret buried with time and shame most likely, mother convinced my brother Bill to play the part of Dorothy. Everyone else breathed a sigh of relief. Mother took me aside and made me a promise. She said, “If you make fun of your brother I will beat the livin’ tar out of you.” I didn’t know what the livin’ tar was but it didn’t take much imagination to figure out that extracting the livin’ tar from my body was going to be painful.

Mother worked tirelessly on our costumes. Bill’s dress and my paper mache lion head were ready before the first dress rehearsal. There was just one problem. Living in East Texas, we were plagued with humid weather. That humidity worked it’s magic on my paper mache lion head. It mildewed on the inside and smelt like raw chicken parts tossed in a garbage can and left for days in the hot sun. It was too late to make another paper mache lion head so I begged mother to let me do my part without the lion head but I lost the battle. The lion head went on with me holding my breath as long as I could.

Regardless of all my suffering on stage in that hot, smelly, cowardly lion head, I was happy as a toad in a cool pond. All I had to do when my happiness began to sag was look over at my brother dancing around in that Dorothy dress and once more I was content. The play ended and Bill led us all back on stage for a curtain call. It didn’t matter that the loud applause was from the hands of our family members. What mattered most was that I would be able to get out of that stinking lion head.

After the play was over and the threat of someone else having to wear that dress and play the part of Dorothy had passed, we kidded Bill without mercy. Mother said that everyone would forget about Bill being “dressed.” We were going to make sure that no one ever forgot. But time passed and Bill’s dress was gradually forgotten. But I never forgot the lesson I learned on stage that hot summer evening as I tried to breathe inside that paper mache lion head. When I began to feel sorry for myself all I had to do was look at my brother Bill “dressed” up as Dorothy and I was immediately happy to be where I was, just a lion who had no courage. Down deep inside, I knew that Bill was a bigger person for agreeing to do what was necessary to make the play a success but what the heck; mother could have chosen a different play. The year before we had been dressed as Indians and warhooped around an imaginary campfire on stage and got just as loud an applause.

Today I would choose to be “dressed” instead of being “egged,” but try to convince an eight-year-old boy of that while his friends are standing around just waiting for an excuse to make fun of him. Maybe those eight-year-old boys should rethink the definition of friend. The word “friend” is a noun. When someone wraps the arms of that noun around you does that mean you are “friended?”