Just a Little Japan BB Episode

Nearing the end of a very long day, the last thing the senior naval officer desired was to lose a valuable piece of government property. Although not a significant threat to national security in the western Pacific, the resultant paperwork alone would ruin anyone's day, or week for that matter.

The day had begun very early in Yokosuka, mustering a houseful of visitors and one heartsick teenager. The former were due to join the senior officer and his spouse on board the Fleet Flagship for a friends and family day cruise to Tokyo. The latter would be bidding adieu and mata ne to his high school sweetheart as she departed the area for college in the Philippines.

While not without its challenges and a few bumps (in the day, not the sea), the senior officer reached the end of his official day following an expansive reception on the deck of the Flagship. After a brief caffeinated decompression interlude, he climbed out of his white uniform, donned casual attire, then stuffed some spare clothing into an aviator's helmet bag and packed up his laptop and camera bags. Shortly he crossed the ship's quarterdeck with "permission to go ashore" to join the aforementioned visitors at a Tokyo hotel.

Although the hour was relatively late, he fortuitously scored a cab shortly after crossing the ship's brow. Twenty minutes later he paid the driver and alighted from the taxi with a cheerful, "Arigato gozaimasu." Since tipping doesn't happen in Japan, those words would be the driver's only token of the senior officer's appreciation.

No sooner had the cab pulled away from the hotel than the senior officer realized that his brand new U.S. Government issued Blackberry had disappeared from his belt. Finding no BB remains on the pavement, this incredibly brilliant officer quickly reasoned that said instrument must have detached from his belt at or near the time that he egressed said taxicab, which event he did not notice since he was so encumbered with helmet bag, laptop case, and camera bag.

Being operationally minded the senior officer immediately engaged the hotel concierge. "Sumimasen. Gomen nasai. I hope you can help me. I just left a Blackberry in a cab."  

With an efficiency and alacrity that many USN watch standers could emulate, the nihonjin immediately sprang into action. "Did you get a receipt?" he asked in very cogent English. Fortunately the officer had not already chucked that little piece of paper into a trash can. Public trash cans essentially disappeared in Japan after the 1995 sarin attack. (Yet Tokyo is cleaner than most American cities.)

The concierge accepted the little piece of paper and dialed the cab company. The officer listened intently to the Japanese conversation hoping to catch an encouraging word. It came toward the end: "Yuroshiku", which means something like "be kind to me."

On hanging up, the concierge advised that the company dispatcher would contact the cab driver and have him look for the BB. In the meantime, the guest could relax in his room. The concierge would call as soon as he got any news. With a deeper than usual bow and more enthusiastic than usual "arigato gozaimasu" the officer went up to his room and waited. He didn't wait long.

The following brief conversations occurred about ten minutes apart:

"Thank you for waiting. The cab driver can find your Blackberry and after ten minutes will bring it here. I will call you back." Then,

"Thank you for waiting. I will bring your Blackberry to you."

A knock on the door two minutes later produced the precious government property, once again reunited with its chagrined yet grateful caretaker.

Such is the level of customer service you get in Japan. Offering either the concierge or the cab driver any remuneration or gratuity at all would have insulted them.

You don't pay for courtesy in Japan. The Japanese are honored to render it gratis, and the more difficult the job the higher the honor.

Can You Hear Me Now?

"CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?"


Four-year old Christopher shouted it into my ear. We played a little after dinner game at our house, enabling his mom and dad to chat freely with my wife. That was in 2007. Bob and Bridget had come to discuss his career options as a Navy emergency physician. He was one of the best physicians, leaders, and naval officers I'd ever met, and he had a great young family too. I was highly motivated to keep him in the Navy, but only if we could meet his professional and family requirements. Kathy's and Bridget's conversation would be pivotal, and would engender an enduring friendship.


Quite some time later, when his mom was carrying his future brother Paul, I happened upon Christopher and his family strolling through our hospital. He remembered our little game.


"CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?"


Today seven-year old Christopher lies alone as a patient in a Seattle hospital. Fortunately, his injuries appear less serious than originally feared. His mom and two-year old brother are patients in yet another hospital near Spokane. We understand that they will recover as well.


His dad...


Well, Bob is no longer with us. He died in the vehicle rollover that seriously injured his wife and two children.


Words utterly fail to express the sadness and anger we feel around here.


They were supposed to come back to Japan. I would have the privilege to work with Bob again. Kathy and Bridget would renew their friendship. Maybe Christopher would remember our little game. Maybe Paul would learn it too. But...


As humans we don't get to decide these things. So says conventional wisdom. Frankly, at this time we wonder why He who does decide would allow such a tragedy to befall good people who so deserve happiness and earthly fulfillment. Today, doubt borne on incredulity sorely tries our faith.


But ultimately we must believe that some redemption will occur, at a time and place and way that we cannot fathom now. Otherwise the senselessness will lead to despair. And Hell that is. So faith must win this battle, no matter how desperately challenged.


Can you hear me now, Bob? We grieve the loss of you. We cherish the memory of you. We honor and pray for your family left behind. You were a great American, an outstanding physician and naval officer, and an exemplary husband, father, and human being. We so must believe that your life will achieve greater fulfillment in those left behind by your death.


Can you hear me now, God? Can you hear my anger? My doubt? You have truly shaken faith by this tragedy. Now You must give strength and succor to those who mourn, to those who continue to believe against reason that You will turn this pain to good, so that we may all cherish the memory of Bob as one of your most outstanding servants.  


Not our will....


CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?

A Simple Tribute

That's my dad in the bucket, courtesy of his older brother and sister, Louie and Bertha.

He was nine years old in this photograph (the cute blonde kid in the center):

Thirty-five in this photograph, before he met my mother:

This is one of my favorites, early days on the ranch in his Robert Redford persona:

Many, many years later he came to live with us. Three generations posed for a photo:

"You can plan for life, but you can't outsmart it." 


Dad, that old cliche of yours I repeat many times. The older I get, the truer it becomes.


I wish I had listened to you more, and spoke back a lot less.


But mostly I wish we could see just one more ball game together. 

Happy Fathers' Day, Dad!

We still miss you.


Mike

Passaging

A small band of recent high school graduates stands on the periphery of the humanity pond, my son Matt among them.


Spilling onto the sidewalk and lawn beside the two large all-white tour buses, the expanse of motley baggage does resemble a small pond. Around the pond's edge, amid the suitcases, backpacks, and carry-ons, travelers and well-wishers appear like a troupe of vagabonds about to depart on a gig. But this is no musical or theatrical tour. 


During most of the year, the trips from Yokosuka Naval Base to either Narita Airport or Yokota Air Base typically require only one bus. Today there are two. It happens every summer. As surely as the annual Japanese rainy season, the PCS (permanent change of station) period has fully arrived to the Kanto Plain. Families and single sailors will soon board those white buses to begin the next chapter of their military life adventures.


Matt does not leave today. His turn comes in August when he  departs for Norfolk for his matriculation into Old Dominion University. Today Matt and the friends who still remain in Japan have come to send off one of their fellow graduates who will PCS with his family to the United States. Several other clumps of graduated seniors do the same with other friends.


Amid the hugs and handshakes, the photos and last minute gifts, and then the desperately inevitable final hugs, pathos fills the air. As surely as they walked across a stage barely over a week ago to receive their high school diplomas, these young adults now immerse themselves into a differently poignant rite of passage....saying "Good bye", "So long," "Farewell," Auf Wiedersehen," "Adieu", "Hasta luego," "Mata ne," "Sayonara," or just, "See ya."


Or, perhaps, will never see ya again? Ow, that really hurts, for some to the point of tears.


Unlike graduation, this empathic rite of passage will repeat itself weekly throughout the summer until all who are moving on have done so. The losses will be very real, and for a time the pain will far outshadow the anticipatory joy of new beginnings.


For such is life, and thus transpires one of its most difficult, bittersweet experiences, losing someone or something you really love. Any time we walk across one of life's many stages, our own lives really do change forever. And however much we anticipated, planned for, and relished that moment, loss is always a part of it too. For these young adults, life as a relatively carefree high school senior living and studying in Japan now ends. Friends disperse throughout the world. Families will be apart, if only for a while. Daily enjoyed relationships suddenly cease. A cherished part of life is gone for good. Uncertainty and change lie ahead. That's a tough pill to swallow at 18. Does it ever get easier?


As a father, I would love to spare my son this darker side of life passages. I would wish to save him from the pain of losing friends and loved ones. I would even choose to suffer it myself so he would not have to feel it. That's what dads should do, right?


Wrong. I learned years ago that a life fully lived means experiencing the lows as well as the highs, the sorrows as well as the joys, the losses as well as the gains. Too often in our society we want instant relief from pain or to assuage even mild discomfort. We just want to feel good all the time. That's not life. That's avoidance, which ultimately leads to unhappiness. True joy comes only when we've embraced the full gamut of life's emotions and feelings. Can you tell how high is the mountain if you've never seen the valley?


The minute we are born we begin to experience loss. No longer passively connected to our mother's nutrient system, we immediately become dependent on one another for continued life. That reliance on others ends only upon drawing our last breath. Our lives in the interim require a series of relationships, good ones and not so good ones, but necessary all. And periodically we lose people we love, upon whom we depend. And then we have to build new relationships all over again. Each loss takes a piece out of us. But each gain adds a different piece. The sum doesn't always turn out even. But it is life. And life, first and foremost, is meant to be lived not escaped.


Relish life, my son, in all its forms and all its nuances, even if it means shedding tears...of sadness as well as joy. 


I've got your back. That's what dads do.

Backing Down in Tokyo

Fortunately the Japanese woman in the vehicle stopped in front of me at the highway on ramp in Tokyo spoke very good English. She left her vehicle and approached my side of our rented USN van.


"Excuse me, sir, I would like to back down the ramp. Could you please make room?" Looking in the rear view mirror I noted that all the cars previously stopped behind me had now backed down the ramp and egressed. Rapidly coming up the ramp were three emergency vehicles with lights flashing and very official-sounding Japanese verbiage emanating from their loudspeakers. "They say it will not move for awhile," said the very nice Nihonjin. "And they need to get through."


Thus began the unplanned adventure that should be entitled, "Taking Suzi to Narita Airport, Part Ni."


The last time we took Suzi to the airport, a few years ago, we sweated through an unexpected Sunday afternoon traffic jam around Makuhari in Chiba. We finally got her to NRT just in time to check her bags, wave good-bye, and head through Security and Immigration to make her flight just before the doors closed.


We were smarter this year. Since we had reservations at the New Sanno Hotel in Tokyo, we'd just drive our  rental van to the hotel, park it for a few days, then leisurely drive from there to Narita. This would cut the trip by almost an hour over driving it all the way from Yokosuka. The alternative would have been to put Suzi on the Airport Shuttle bus from the New Sanno. But by driving we would have more time with her, and we like to eat at Narita. This morning we fortuitously left the hotel an hour earlier than planned. We expected ample time for lunch in one of Narita's good restaurants before Suzi had to board her flight.


The initial maneuver from the New Sanno to the highway involves turning left out of the parking exit then moving immediately to the far right lane to enter the on-ramp that comes up rapidly less than a block after the hotel. (In Japan we drive on the left side of the road.) I executed this maneuver flawlessly, only to find the traffic stopped exactly at the entry toll booth. Waiting patiently, we reckoned the traffic would move fairly soon once the cause of the congestion ahead cleared. It didn't. Hence the backing down maneuver, which progressed fairly well in spite of the ramp appearing in the rear view mirror to be a mile long and only two feet wide.


Once we successfully egressed, the true fun began. What is the best alternate route to Narita? Hadn't considered one. Map? Of course not. Directions? Didn't think we'd need them. Clue? Vaguely know which way is north.


So we followed our noses, to highway 1 to Shinagawa to Mita to Tokyo Tower to ... haven't a clue. But somehow we did find our way onto the C1 highway, from which we easily navigated to the Rainbow Bridge to the Bayshore Route and on to NRT...in plenty of time for Suzi to check her bags, wave good-bye, and head through Security and Immigration to make her flight just before the doors closed. We who remained behind had sushi for lunch.


During this somewhat tense Tokyo driving adventure, Katie and Suzi sat in the back seat and documented some interesting dialogue between the driver and his spousal unit/navigator/critic. But, that's for another blog or another time.


We are home now, and Suzi is well on her way back to Michigan. Or so we suppose. Doubt she'd call for a ride if she missed her flight.

In The Line of Duty

I didn't really know Tom Coleman. I knew his mom, who was my first wife's sister. And I knew his cousins, who are my daughters, Jewls and Lisa. And I knew his older sisters, who were Jewls' and Lisa's contemporaneous cousins. And I knew his dad before I knew any of them, because by pure coincidence we were classmates before either one of us married. But I never really knew Tom except as a playful, happy child who always brightened those sometimes uncomfortable family gatherings when divorced parents periodically come together to celebrate their children.


Tom Coleman died tragically in the line of duty, carrying out his sworn mission to protect and to serve the lives of others. Though I never knew Tom as a young adult, I do know about service as a vocation. And I know how those who don the cloth of service sometimes pay the ultimate sacrifice. I have seen the lifeless visages of Marines and Sailors, Soldiers and Law Enforcement Officers who gave their lives before Tom. He joins a most elite and honorable company of warriors.


Tom's parents, grandparents, siblings, and cousins who mourn his loss are good people. They deserved to keep him in their lives much longer. But he died. Now, other grandparents, parents, siblings, cousins, and friends - who never knew Tom and never will - can enjoy the continued presence of loved ones in their lives, because of his service. For that he deserves a special place of honor in whatever life exists after death on this earth. And may those who mourn his death also find the strength to cherish his life of service and honor.


No, I never really knew Tom Coleman. But I know the cloth of service. So I am most honored to call him kin. I salute you, Tom. May you rest in peace and glory.


-- A Fellow Servant

Making Lemonade

A five-year old American boy stands with a Mexican vendor on a Guadalajara street corner. The man sells lemonade to passersby. The boy has filled his little beach pail with bottled water from his room in the adjoining hotel. Now he emulates his new amigo as he hawks his pretend concoction, "Agua, agua limonada!" The boy's voice wafts through the open window of the hotel room above, where his distraught parents search for him. They look out the window with both relief and pain as they spot their little boy on the street below, trying with all his tiny might to share the life and culture of a foreign country.

Soon thereafter the same little boy attends Mexican kindergarten in a Guadalajara suburb. His dad, fluent in Spanish since growing up on a ranch in southeastern Arizona, works in Mexico for the AFTOSA project seeking to eradicate hoof and mouth disease in Mexican cattle. They young boy learns Spanish in that local parochial school. In fact, he speaks Spanish "mejor de ingles," which is good, because most of his friends and playmates are Mexican children. The year is 1951. For the rest of his life, he will always consider Mexicans to be his amigos buenos.

Many years later in Baltimore, MD, another five-year old boy skips along beside his father on their morning walk to home daycare not far from Johns Hopkins School of Public Health. The father is working on a master's degree. Many fellow students fear living so close to the campus, because they consider the area undesirable, meaning ethnically not white. But this boy's parents choose to live in that neighborhood for exactly the diversity that it offers their children. The five-year old boy is the only white child in his daycare setting. His older brother and sister walk to the foot of Chester Street every morning, along with their Filipino neighbor, to attend a small Catholic school. The white kids are the minority race in this school among Asian, Hispanic, and black children. The year is 1994.

In yet another time and place, an older white man fully appreciates that the happenstance of his genetics and chromosomes placed him always in the majority, until now. Early in his 7 ^th decade of life he feels for the first time the real sting of discrimination. Evaluated in an organization that prides itself on commitment to diversity, he is judged not by the performance reflected in his record, or on the strength of his character, or on the promise of his leadership experience. His future is determined simply by the first digit of his age, a "6." The year is 2008.

Unlike performance, character, and experience he has no control over the date of his birth, no more than his friends can control the color of their skin or the native language of their parents. Such is the vile nature of discrimination, wherein the value of the human being is supplanted by the circumstances of birth.

For a while that discrimination really hurts the sexagenarian. The man who once was the boy who sold pretend limonada on a Mexican street corner; who as a father deliberately taught his children to embrace diversity, and put them in circumstances where they could relish that experience; now fully understands that salt in a wound is far from salubrious. It simply burns. But with time he also realizes that his own infinitesimal taste of the pain of intolerance represents only a single grain of salt in a hugely festering wound of discrimination, a wound from which our society must once and for all really heal itself. With just a dash of pride he also realizes that the next generation, led by offspring such as his who are truly neutral to race, color, gender, and even age, will perhaps finally erase discrimination from the face of the earth. And that will be a glorious day, whatever the year.

We truly hope for a better world for our children, a world free of bigotry and hatred. Looking back over the last five decades, we clearly made significant progress. But still there are lemons. We need a pail and some water...


 

"It's a Boy!"

Eight year-old Katie just could not keep a secret. Thus I learned the gender of my new child, whose birth I had missed because of an airplane.

For the first six months of 1992 I did the geo-bachelor gig as a recently commissioned naval officer and  student flight surgeon in Pensacola. Pregnant Kathy and her two children remained in Texas to the challenge of a newly blended family with an even newer baby/sibling on the way. The obstetrician-recommended induction was scheduled for Friday, June 12, 1992. I was in the flight training phase of the naval flight surgeon curriculum, the same as bona-fide student naval aviators. To reach my goal of a final solo in the T-34, I seized every possible flying opportunity. So I booked an early morning commercial flight from Pensacola to DFW on the morning of June 12. I could get in one more training flight the Thursday before and still arrive in time for the newborn's scheduled arrival.


As would often happen in the next 18 years, Matthew had other ideas. Kathy called me early Friday morning. "Just come from the airport to the hospital," she said. "I'm in labor." Kathy's mother and young Katie picked me up at the airport later that morning and whisked me straight to the hospital, where newborn Matthew awaited the belated arrival of his father. So there I was, wearing my Navy summer whites for reasons I don't remember now, viewing my new baby through the nursery window. "You must be the grandfather," said a well-meaning onlooker. "No," said I testily, "That's my son."


That was 18 years ago tomorrow. Yesterday Matthew graduated from high school. It's been quite a week.


In the 18 years since his Dallas birth to his Japan high school graduation Matt has moved nine times. He's attended nine different schools in five different cities in two countries. Since starting kindergarten at age 4 in Florida, he's completed 14 years of formal education. That includes five Catholic schools and four public schools. He attended seven schools in K - 8th grade alone, and two different high schools in Japan and Virginia.


In addition to moving so many times, making new friends and adjusting to new school systems and teachers, his life has been challenged in other ways. The periodic absence of a father whose Navy career took him away for months at a time was just one of those challenges. For three years, Matt shared a household with his nonagenarian paternal grandfather whose life was gradually consumed by Parkinson's disease. He saw his maternal grandfather battle cancer and his active grandmother's life dramatically altered by two major strokes. He personally witnessed the deaths of three grandparents. All of that occurred before high school.  


As a graduating 8th grader he cried when we told him he would start high school not in Norfolk with his friends, but in Japan with strangers. But just a short while later, as a junior at a Catholic high school in Arlington, VA, he begged to return to Japan for his senior year. We figured out a way to make that happen. It's been arguably the best and happiest year of his life, punctuated by a series of impressive accomplishments and healthy relationships.


Yesterday the Matthew who spoke from the podium with such presence and poise, the Matt who strode confidently across the stage to receive his diploma, who was afterward cheered and lauded and hugged by genuine friends and girlfriend, was no longer a child but a young adult.

I looked down from the audience with such pride, and saw what that newborn baby of 18 years ago had become.


"It's a man," said I.

Duped? Or Just Naïve?

If I invited you to a movie, would you come?
 
You'd probably want to know more before you commit your precious time. Title perhaps? Genre? Cast? Theme? Discerning theater patrons would likely opt in or out only once sufficiently informed whether the cinematic offering meets their preferences.
 
What if I invited you to a religious service? You'd probably want to know more about that too. Type of service? Denomination? Purpose? Sponsor? Few people would choose to dress up and attend just any religious service, especially in the middle of a Saturday afternoon.
 
What if the invitation was to a baccalaureate ceremony? Do you know what that entails? Does the following cryptic invite provide sufficient information as to the nature, theme, and purpose of the event?
 
"The Class of 2010 baccalaureate ceremony will take place on June 5^th at the base chapel.  Please encourage your child to attend and participate in his/her baccalaureate exercise."  -- KHS Senior Class Advisor Newsletter to Parents dated 10 May 2010.
 
What, exactly, is a baccalaureate ceremony?
 
Between the two of us, my wife and I have attended a total of 10 high school or college graduation ceremonies at both public and Catholic schools. We have never witnessed an event similar to last Saturday's "baccalaureate ceremony," to which the high school urged our offspring to attend, and for which we dutifully dressed up to support. By the end, we felt that our son and we had simply been proselytized by an evangelical branch of Christianity to which we don't care to subscribe. Nothing against them, mind you, just not our preference and not the one we've taught our son. Had we known ahead of time the nature and slant of the ceremony, we would have simply opted out. 
 
According to the leaflet issued at the ceremony, "The Baccalaureate ceremony...originated in 1432 at Oxford University....Today, this service is usually an interfaith one that celebrates the completion of an undergraduate academic career."
  
Wondering about the primary reference for this historical information, I later conducted a Google search, wherein I found multiple undocumented sites such as "Wikipedia" stating roughly the same description, including the inconsistent use of capitalization for the words, "baccalaureate," "service," and "ceremony." Apparently these non-authoritative websites simply quote each other, but none of them cite a primary source. 
 
Several other websites proffered some interesting definitions and legal advice to Christian sects wishing to host a religious baccalaureate ceremony at a public high school:
  
One court succinctly described a typical baccalaureate service as "generally intended to honor the high school's graduates, and characteristically included speeches, prayer, and songs with a Christian theme, organized and presided over by church pastors or other community religious leaders."
  
School officials may not ... organize a religious baccalaureate ceremony. If the school generally rents out its facilities to private groups, it must rent them out on the same terms, and on a first-come first-served basis, to organizers of privately sponsored religious baccalaureate services, provided that the school does not extend preferential treatment to the baccalaureate ceremony and the school disclaims official endorsement of the program.


Are baccalaureate services constitutional?




Yes, if they are privately sponsored. Public schools may not sponsor religious baccalaureate ceremonies. But parents, faith groups, and other community organizations are free to hold such services for students who wish to attend. The school may announce the baccalaureate in the same way it announces other community events. If the school allows community groups to rent or otherwise use its facilities after hours, then a privately sponsored baccalaureate may be held on campus under the same terms offered to any private group.

The terms "baccalaureate," "baccalaureate service," and "baccalaureate ceremony" carry a variety of definitions and manifestations. Just like the term, "movie," one really doesn't know what will accost one's senses and mind once the show starts, and whether it will make a pleasing or uncomfortable experience. We certainly did not expect a narrowly focused religious event featuring prayers that sounded like sermons, religious poetry, a single religious song by the high school choir, and a lengthy quasi-academic sermon. Beyond the choir rendition, no students or faculty played a role in the ceremony. It was, purely and simply, a Protestant service conducted by Protestant ministers and chaplains.

Upon asking, we were assured that this was not a school-sponsored event. It was organized by parents of graduating seniors. Must have been a subgroup of seniors' parents, since we two senior's parents knew nothing about it before it was advertised. Surely the organizers were well-meaning, but misguided in thinking that their particular viewpoint or beliefs would apply across the entire graduating class. Or maybe they just don't understand fundamental communication. 

This admittedly lengthy polemic is not about religion, high school graduation, or baccalaureate ceremonies. It is simply about communication: clear, concise, yet thorough and useful exchange of information. However well intentioned, the baccalaureate organizers and school officials failed miserably in communicating. The printed program strongly suggests lack of attention to detail. Otherwise how could the featured speaker's surname be spelled two different ways, each time incorrectly? How could a basic apostrophe be misplaced twice, in "Graduate's Entrance" and "Graduate's Exit." (Unless the authors really expected only one graduate to attend.) 


Sadly the dismal communication evidences a deeper underlying issue, one that is even more disturbing coming from an academic institution. Apparently the organizers and school officials simply assumed that their invitees understand the term "baccalaureate" the same as they do. No need to explain its nature, because surely everyone knows what to expect. Therein hides a frightening possibility. Our son attends a Department of Defense school. The students and their families represent the very essence of American diversity: ethnic, cultural, and religious. To assume that such a diverse group of motivated students and accomplished professional parents should all subscribe to a single faith perspective on the transition from youth to adulthood is a dangerous and unworthy precedent. 


The diversity of Americans makes our nation strong and enduring. We should celebrate that diversity at every opportunity. We cannot all be threaded through the eye of a single needle. And our children should not be subjected to a fundamentalist Christian ceremony as their only option for instilling faith into their commencement from high school youth to young adulthood.

So, anyone for a Baccalaureate Mass next year? Or maybe we should just go to a movie.
 

A Flurry of Vignettes

Like much of life these days, graduation week arrived in a flurry of activity, assaulting the senses with cryptic yet dramatic vignettes of time passing all too quickly.


Was it not just yesterday that I would sling a backpack over my shoulder and carry 4-year-old Matthew through downtown Baltimore to daycare on my way to my MPH work at Johns Hopkins? Now he is almost 18 and about to graduate from high school in Japan.


Was it not just yesterday that we travelled to Dallas to watch James graduate from high school? Where we met Emily for the first time? Now they are young adults making their first trip to Japan to watch James' little brother commence.


Was it not just yesterday that the two still-living grandparents and various extended family travelled to Norfolk for Katie's high school graduation? She is now not only several years a college graduate, but completing a masters degree as well.


Was it not just yesterday that I travelled to Oregon for Lisa's high school and college graduations? She later earned an M.S. degree and is now a published scientist and married young adult.


Was it not just yesterday that I made that trip to Portland for Juli's (now "Jewls") high school graduation? She too has a masters degree, and is now a professional counselor, and raising two teenage children of her own.


Was it not just yesterday that I sat proudly in the bleachers for Michael's high school graduation in Scottsdale? He is now an accomplished architect, husband, and dad.


Was it not just yesterday that I attended the first of these seven rites of passage when Debi graduated from Horizon High School in Scottsdale? And she is now a successful occupational therapist and fabulous mom.


And, indeed, was it not just yesterday that I donned a black robe and walked down a church aisle with all eight of my fellow high school graduates from a small Catholic seminary in Tucson, AZ? 


That was a mere 46 years ago. At the time I figured to devote myself to a life of celibacy. That didn't exactly pan out. I liked girls too much. God had other plans for me, most especially to know and to celebrate the lives of these seven individuals whom I proudly call my children. 


God bless them, every one, and all my wonderful grandchildren too.

An Unexpected Experience

Over the years I've been to quite a few school awards banquets. Most tended to be overly long and dull. Last night's soiree for the Kinnick High School track and field team was our last ever sports event. It turned out to be one of those unexpected peak experiences in life.

The early agenda went according to formula, as successive groups of athletes (a total of 70 on the team) paraded in front of camera-clicking parents to receive their varsity or JV letters.

When the program shifted to announcing the Most Improved and Most Valuable Player and Red Devil awards, a different spirit entered the room. These young athletes clearly like and respect one another, and demonstrated genuine pride in each other's accomplishments. Not a sour grape in the place. What we have here, ladies and gentlemen, is not a group of individual achievers, but a real team. A bit of a rarity in this day and age.

When the team captains and managers took over the show, the reason for the uplifting atmosphere quickly became evident.

I have never seen such an outpouring of genuine love, respect, and gratitude for high school coaches as these young men and women repeatedly expressed for the two men who guided their season. I have never seen teenagers speak so articulately about lessons learned in leadership, sportsmanship, and winning spirit. I have never seen young men and women almost break down as they spoke from their hearts about the stunning impact that these men have had on their lives, by simply encouraging them to believe in themselves and to achieve their own potential.

To Mr. Garrido and Mr. Wagner, outstanding leaders in every respect, thank you for teaching our children the true meaning of sportsmanship and by extension, the true meaning of life. 

                                                     -- A Grateful Parent